Lost and Found (Again)
by mgsglacier
Summary: Clara and Andrew are a seemingly inseparable duo, but when life throws all manner of challenges at them, only time will tell if their friendship will falter, or change into something new. [semi-hiatus status]
1. A Most Fortunate Meeting

_April 27__th__, 1891_

Clara hurried to keep up with her mother's long strides as she pulled her hat down over her ears to protect from the bright spring sunshine. Her doll bounced against her leg and her feet kicked the rubbish of the street out of her way.

"I was in the middle of something," she declared as she caught up.

"Oh?"

"I was busy designing a new dress for Molly and I was trying to pick out the color from the fabric scraps in our cabbage patch. Do I _have_ to come?"

Her mother considered her protest and cast her an enquiring look. "Don't you like helping the orphans at Graham Windham?"

"Well…"

"Well?"

"Well, it's nice to help our neighbors and bring them food since they don't have a lot of their own and it's great that your charity society hosts this, I just don't see why _I _have to do it. There's lots of your lady friends to help as it is. It's boring, and you won't even let me do the fun things like taking care of the dessert table."

Her mother sniffed but didn't answer, so Clara simply sighed and hiked up her skirts to follow her. Plaza Park wasn't a long walk from their apartment near the Brooklyn Heights or the orphanage, which made it the perfect place to hold a weekly charity luncheon. Other children ran around the grassy area waiting for their turn to be called up to the dinner line, but Clara didn't join them. Rather, she dutifully followed her mother towards the row of tables piled high with potluck foods. She wondered what her mother had made for the event this week.

"Watch out!"

Clara barely had the chance to glance up from the path in time to see a couple of boys hurtling towards her. One crashed into her and she fell flatly onto her rear, dropping her doll in the collision.

"Hey!"

"Sorry!" The boy scurried to his feet and ran off before he could say a second word. "Can't get tagged!"

"hhmph," Clara stuck her tongue out at him and started to look around for her doll, Molly. A short boy with blonde hair bent over the path a few paces away from her. He picked up the treasured toy and dusted off her skirt before rushing to Clara and extending his hand to help her up.

"Are you ok?

"Fine, thank you," She answered stiffly, taking back her doll and inspecting it for injury.

"I don't think her dress is ruined too bad," he said, "Sorry about that. My name's Andrew, what's yours?"

Satisfied that both her doll and her own skirt were not too terribly soiled, she finally gave him a small smile. "I'm Clara. It's alright. Thank you for helping me up. I think I owe you a favor."

"Clara! Where did you- ah! What happened?" Her mother's voice cut through their conversation, and Clara quickly excused herself with a shy wave to follow her back towards the food tables. She set Molly on a chair where she would be safe and donned an apron to start helping scoop out food for the others. The line shuffled by as families lined up to fill their plates, and Clara quickly spooned out the dish of noodle casserole her mother had brought, mumbling "your welcome" to the people as they passed and thanked her. Her mind wandered to schemes of where she would find a quiet spot to play when she was done with her own duty, but she was soon shaken out of her daydreams by a familiar voice.

"Hey! Thank you!" It was Andrew. He grinned at her. "I think we're even."

She didn't have time to respond before he moved on with the rest of the line, but she watched him with a curious glance in his direction in between servings. He took his place in a quiet spot under a tree with a father, mother, and two older brothers not too far from her station and she made a mental note to go find him later and properly settle their conversation.

But first. Food.

* * *

Andrew returned to sit with his family after retrieving his plate. His older brothers, Peter and James, helped their mother spread out a threadbare blanket for their picnic as their father followed behind his youngest son. They said grace, and sat to have their dinner. Andrew dug into Clara's noodle casserole first, despite his mother's request to eat his vegetables first. It was good, and a special treat as a change from the porridge and soups that they normally had at home. His brothers seemed to have the same idea.

"Boys, did you thank the charity ladies for bringing the supper?" Eleanor asked. "It's very generous of them to do this for us, you know."

"Yes Ma," came the general chorus.

"Can I go up for seconds?" Peter asked. He was fourteen now, and growing another inch every day. James and Andrew chimed in with the same request. Their father cast a glance at the line and shook his head.

"There's so many people – we should let everyone have some first. This is supposed to be for the Graham Windham orphans, and they only just opened it to the community, so we need to take our turns if we're to be invited back."

The boys gave solemn nods and slowed down on devouring the rest of their plates in an attempt to make it last longer. Andrew tried to snatch a cookie off of James's plate, only to receive a hand slapped away for his efforts. He gave his brother a hurt look, and James surrendered the cookie. Andrew then turned his hopeful look at Peter, who hid his own sweets in his pocket for safe keeping.

"Nice try."

Andrew shrugged, "It was worth a shot."

"Why don't you boys go play with the other kids once you've finished your supper. We'll head home just before sunset but you can run off some energy until then," Eleanor suggested. Andrew nodded excitedly and quickly stuffed the rest of his cookie in his mouth to go running off.

James and Peter eventually left to go find playmates of their own age as well, and after their father and mother packed up the picnic blanket, Eleanor watched contentedly as her boys quickly made friends with the other children. Full stomachs and tired children were a rare blessing, so she began walking back towards the dinner line. Such a lovely event warranted a second thanks.

* * *

Tracking down the boy from earlier served to be a little more difficult than she'd expected. His family packed up their picnic spot by the time she'd finished serving food and eating her own supper, and there were so many other children running around the open grassy fields that she couldn't spot him amongst the others. Clara shrugged and took up her doll to go find a quiet place to play under the trees. If he was going to hide, she wasn't going to bother seeking. She noticed some of her acquaintances from school playing tag and waved to them before taking a seat in a suitably grassy spot. They could have their running about; she was more than content to entertain herself. It wasn't long before she'd found some of the early flowers of the summer and constructed a crown for Molly – the periwinkles looked lovely with her yellow dress – and a small town in the uncovered roots of a particularly large tree. Acorns served for houses, a leaf for the lake, and twigs for roads. She pulled a small notepad and pencil from her skirt pocket and wrote in large looping cursive at the top of the sheet, "My Town's People" before stopping to chew on her eraser and consider what businesses should go where. She was shaken from her train of thought when she heard her name in the jumbled conversations filling the air around her.

"…Clara. She's in my grade."

"What's she like?"

"She doesn't really talk to anyone much, so we just leave her alone."

Clara looked up for the source of the voices: they both sounded familiar. And there – Millie and Andrew standing off to the side of the game of tag. He was pointing in her direction and when he noticed her squinting at them, he dropped his arm and ran over to her and gave her a winning smile.

"Hi Clara! Do you wanna play tag with us?"

She blinked at this sudden display of friendliness. "Um, perhaps later, thank you, Andrew. And thank you for helping me earlier."

"Of course. What are you doing? You shouldn't have to be alone. Are you new here too?"

"No, I live just up the road. I was playing Town." She showed him the notepad.

"How do you play that?" He asked. He cast a genuinely curious look over the little model she'd created. Clara grinned, pleased that someone had taken interest in her creation – while she played occasionally enough with the other girls at school, they often had their own variations of the rules of the game that she thought didn't make any sense. She launched into a lengthy explanation of how to play it _her way_, pleased to educate her new friend on the proper way to run an upstanding community. He seemed eager enough to listen as he nodded and asked questions and eventually added his own ideas to the town, much to Clara's delight to finally have a willing playmate.

They were interrupted by the sound of one of her classmates calling from the main field. "Andrew! Aren't you coming back to play tag?!"

"I'll be there in a minute!" He shouted back, before turning to Clara. "Do you want to come with me? I'm sure they'll be happy to have you! We can finish this first, of course."

Clara nodded. "How do you know everyone already? Did you say you were new here?"

"I like making friends!" He answered cheerfully, "We came to America a year ago, and just moved to this neighborhood a few weeks ago. We only just heard about this event though, so it's our first week at the dinner. How long have you been here?"

"My whole life. My father is the doctor at the orphanage, and my mother is a charity lady, so she brings me along to all of her events like this," Clara shrugged, before smiling at him and extending her hand for a shake. "But in that case, welcome to Brooklyn, Andrew! I'm glad you're here."

* * *

Clara's mom smiled contentedly as she watched her daughter run out into the field after another boy about her age, laughing and screaming with the rest of the children. She tended to keep to herself, not because she was shy, but rather too… intense to keep close friends, and it was nice to see her acting her age for once. She nodded once and went back to stacking dishes until she heard a voice behind her.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Yes?" She turned around to see a small woman with blonde hair and freckles behind her. Her clothes marked her as poor, her accent marked her as a recent immigrant. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Eleanor Morris. I just wanted to thank you for your work. My boys are happy for the chance to meet other children and we all appreciate the food."

Elizabeth smiled and gestured to the field. "I'm happy to help. Which boys are yours?"

"Peter and James are standing by the tree line with the older kids. My youngest, Andrew is the blonde one running in the field. It looks like he's It."

Elizabeth squinted at the throng of children and nodded in recognition before turning a smile to Eleanor, "He's befriended my own daughter Clara. Perhaps I should be thanking you."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you like the first chapter of this story! I'm really proud of how much work I've put into it, since it's my first adventure into writing a longer multi-chapter fanfic. If you liked it, reviews are always appreciated and I reply to every one! I'll see you on the next chapter - I plan to update weekly on Sundays at least for the first arc, which is roughly 10 weeks/chapters. :)**


	2. Slowpoke

Clara groaned and glanced up from her book as her teacher, Ms. Spalding, smacked her ruler on her desk to get everyone's attention, bemoaning the boredom that would surely accompany the morning's lesson. The chatter died down as the other students dropped their conversations to focus on what was going on at the front of the classroom. A familiar figure stood awkwardly next to her, wearing the same old clothes and the same wide smile.

"Class, this is Andrew Morris. He's new and will be joining our class today. I'm going to be working with him to place him into groups, so I want you to start today by doing your grammar workbooks."

Clara smiled at the sight of her friend and tucked her book away inside her desk to pull out her assignment. She didn't have much more to finish and quickly worked through the last few pages in the unit, then raised her hand to wait for more instruction. When Ms. Spalding didn't see her, she scrambled down from her seat to go find an answer instead. She planted herself quietly in front of their desk, with her hand still raised.

"ahem."

"Yes Clara?"

"I'm done." She handed the workbook over. "May I read?"

Ms. Spalding took the workbook and glanced over her answers. "That you are. Hm. Why don't you work with Andrew? He's going to start with our book and didn't miss much since the beginning of the school year, so you can help him catch up to speed, and I'll prepare the next lesson for the class."

"Yes Ms. Spalding," Clara answered, just a bit disappointed that she wouldn't be able to go back to her story, though she didn't mind the chance to see Andrew. It wasn't long before the two were bent heads together over the book, whispering quietly together.

"Frances bought ten zucchini-" Clara read. Andrew already filled out the first part of the sheet with relative ease, so she hoped this would go quickly. It must be hard coming to a new school in the middle of the year.

"Who would buy ten zucchinis?!"

"I don't know, that's what the question says," she answered, smiling in spite of herself. The question really was silly.

"I would buy ten candies."

Clara shook her head. "You would rot your teeth out."

Andrew flashed Clara a winning smile. "Have you ever rotted your teeth out?"

"Well… no."

"Then how would you know?"

"My mother says so. And I don't eat so much candy. So there. We also shouldn't get distracted. Ms. Spalding wanted us to finish this page before it's time for spelling. I'll help."

"Do you follow a schedule every day?"

"Yes, didn't your old school do that?"

"I didn't go to school before now."

"Why not? My mother says that every child should be in school. Besides, you know how to read, and do math already, so you must have gone to school at _some _point," Clara argued.

"Well my Ma says that she's my first teacher," Andrew countered. "We was moving around so much it was just easier that way."

"Is you mother a teacher?"

"No. She's a seamstress. And a mom."

"Then how did she teach you?"

"Well she knows how to read, doesn't she? And do math. And all sorts of other things. She showed me how. It's not that different."

"Then why are you here now?"

"She's working."

"How did you make friends if you weren't in school?"

"The same way anybody makes friends – I talk to people," Andrew fired back. "I'm friends with you, aren't I?

Clara hesitated as she tried to process this new information. Not going to school sounded like a lot of fun. Imagine how much reading she could do if she didn't have to wait for her classes to be over. Or embroidery! Or-

"Are you done with that page, Andrew?" Ms. Spalding's voice cut through her thoughts and they both jumped.

"Almost!" he called, before giving Clara a conspiratorial grin and turning back to the paper. "Frances… Who was very silly for missing that turn to go to the candy shop… instead bought Ten! Whole! Zucchinis!"

Clara giggled and read the rest of the question. Maybe school would be fun this year after all, if she was learning with a friend.

* * *

About a decade later, the bell rang, and Andrew scrambled out of his seat to retrieve his lunch from the cubby in the corner and follow the other kids out to the schoolyard where they took up their usual spot along a low rock wall to chatter and eat and introduce themselves to the friendly and eager new kid. He noticed Clara trickle out of the school a moment later, sit down under a tree apart from the group of kids in her own grade, and looked around as if she were waiting for somebody. An older girl walked over to her a minute later. Andrew smiled to see that Clara wasn't always sitting alone and that she had another friend, even though he couldn't understand what she could possibly have in common with a teenager. Maybe Clara would introduce them?

They finished their food before the bell rang, and someone suggested a game of four-square. Will – a brunette with freckles and one of the first who'd introduced himself – ran to the schoolyard teacher to retrieve a ball and chalk to draw out the grid, and Andrew suggested inviting Clara to play, only for another girl – Millie? - to shake her head at him.

"Why not?"

Millie and one of her friends exchanged an awkward glance. "She doesn't like us."

Andrew frowned. "Really? She seemed to enjoy playing tag the other day… Why wouldn't she like you? Don't you like her?"

The other girl shrugged, "It's not really that we don't like each other, she's friendly enough, we just don't get along so well."

"Yeah, she just tends to keep to herself, and when she does interact, she sometimes might start yelling about what she's excited about."

"It's a little weird. Especially if you don't know what she's talking about."

"She can be bossy sometimes."

"She means well, like telling someone not to hurt themselves by doing something foolish. But she's very blunt."

"Just a bit."

Andrew watched the conversation with building bewilderment, glancing between his new friends and Clara having a very animated conversation with the older girl. "I have an idea," he proposed, "Why don't I ask her to play? If she agrees, then that shows that she does like you guys, and maybe you'll make a new friend. If not, then no harm done after all."

The others agreed, so he gave them a thankful smile and rushed over to where Clara was sitting. The older girl noticed him first and interrupted their conversation to gesture at him. "Who's this?"

"Oh, hi Andrew. He's an ok one." Clara said, looking up at her friend. Andrew wondered what that was supposed to mean, but then she turned back to him. "What's going on?"

"Do you wanna play four square? The others are starting a game soon!"

Clara looked to her friend, then back to Andrew. "Um, maybe later. Hannah was telling me about an interesting article she saw."

"Hello, Andrew," Hannah said. "Clara if you want to go ahead, that's fine."

"No, I want to finish seeing this," She insisted. "I'll be right there."

"What are you working on? Not more homework?"

Hannah laughed, it was high pitched and oddly pleasant sounding. "Yes, actually! I brought in an excerpt of some yellow journalism for my own assignment on historical and modern reform movements, and she wanted to help me figure out which pictures would be best to use."

"It's Riis, they're all going to be brilliantly persuasive," Clara asserted, with an intensity that Andrew heard before. Homework though it was, it caught his interest and he leaned over to see what they were looking at. Grainy newspaper photos of people in crowded apartments looked up at him from the page.

"What's this supposed to be?"

"Examples of _How the Other Half Lives_. He just published it, and these were some of the most famous pictures," Hannah explained, "It's making quite a wave in the world."

"What's that supposed to mean? Those aren't bad," Andrew asked, squinting closer at the page. Clara looked at him with a look of slightly troubled bafflement. Andrew decided elaborating might help. He tapped the picture, "It looks like they have a few beds, and a trunk and a spare pair of shoes there. My mom and dad say they didn't bring a trunk to America because that took too much space on the ship."

"I see…" Hannah said slowly. "Thank you for sharing, I'm sure that'll make a good addition to my report."

"You're welcome!" Andrew answered cheerily. He turned to Clara again, "Are you coming to play four-square, slowpoke?"

Hannah nodded for her younger friend. "_Go on,_" she mouthed, already turning to pull out a pen and pad of paper to jot down some notes.

"Can you bring me a copy of these tomorrow? Mother might like to see them."

"Here." Hannah tore of the top sheet and handed it to Clara who folded it and carefully tucked it in her skirt pocket. "That's the book. Maybe your mum already ordered it."

"Thanks, Hannah!" Clara climbed to her feet and glanced at Andrew before sprinting in the direction of the court. "Keep up, slowpoke."

* * *

**A/N: and now the story begins to pick up! I hope those of you who stuck around for the second chapter enjoyed it! If you like the story, feel free to leave a review, I do my best to reply to all of them! :)**


	3. Flour and Friends

_May 3__rd__, 1891_

"Moooooooooooooommm!" Clara's voice echoed down the staircase as she sprinted up the three flights of stairs to their apartment, prompting several of their newer neighbors to crack open their doors to see what on earth was the matter. Those that knew Clara already didn't bother. She flung the door of their own apartment open and dumped her school bag on the floor as she ran into the parlor. "Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma!"

"Clara! Clara! Clara! Clara! Clara!" Elizabeth dropped her sewing into her lap to look with exasperation at her daughter. "Whatever is the matter?! And does it _really_ necessitate yelling in the stairwell?"

"Look!" Clara ignored her mother's chastisement and instead reached into her pocket to unfold the picture Hannah had given her and shove it nearly into Elizabeth's nose. She scarcely paused to take a breath between words and Elizabeth had to stifle a laugh at her bright red face. "This is a picture of the tenements from a book that Hannah showed me and Andrew said that it's really not that bad which means he lives in a place worse than that and has even less than they do and just _look _at that picture it's _not _ok and we need to do something about it!"

"Do we?"

"Yes!"

"How do you plan to do that?"

Clara deflated slightly. "I don't know, you're the adult, and you work with the charity. Couldn't you come up with something?" She knew from her mother's knowing look that her answer wouldn't suffice even before she spoke.

"He's your friend, isn't he? Why don't you want to help him and his family?"

Clara flounced down onto the chair opposite her mother and rested her head in her hands to think. "I _do_ want to help. That's why I told you. I can't do anything on my own. I'm just a kid."

Her mother only raised an eyebrow at her.

"I guess I can help with the charity dinners but that's only once a week and that's not enough. He said that they don't have spare shoes, and that his parents didn't even come to America with a trunk for their things, but I can't just find them a trunk either. And I don't have a job so I can't give them money or donate to the charity like you and Dad do."

A job. Andrews parents had to have jobs. What about his older brothers? Clara knew of older children in the school that did odd jobs around town for a small allowance – and Hannah was already applying for a secretary position for when she graduated from high school. Even if there weren't jobs to be had at the tailors or the newspaper, maybe she could help them find work someplace else. But where?

"If you can come up with something, I'll help you make it a reality," Elizabeth offered, "but it has to be _your_ doing, Clara. You can't always expect adults to do the work, and you'll be an adult one day soon too. It's important to take leadership sooner rather than later."

Clara sighed and nodded at her mother's familiar lecture. She liked to believe that after hearing it for the hundredth time, she might have taken it to heart, but ideas proved as elusive as butterflies and such a nebulous quality as "leadership" would be easier said than done for a nine-year-old. She looked absentmindedly out the window at the orphanage building that stood across from their apartment. The bright red paint was peeling off in patches, and some of the windows were missing their shutters. She barely noticed her father coming into the apartment as she let her eyes dance over the sight of the dilapidated home and listened idly to her parent's conversation.

"How was work today, Mark?" Elizabeth asked her husband.

"Well enough at the clinic," he answered. "I stopped by Graham Windham on the way home – I got a notice that some of the children weren't feeling well, so I checked on them."

"And they're doing ok?"

"Just spring sickness, with the trees dropping their pollen the nurses thought the children had caught cold again, but it's nothing rest and warmth won't fix. Their rooms were so drafty you wouldn't know if the windows were open or not, so I told the nurse to move them to the kitchens until they felt better. And to keep them from climbing in the park."

Clara wondered what Andrew was doing now. If both his parents were working, they wouldn't take him on outings or errands, like Ma did with her some days. He'd probably just be sitting at his apartment, or doing chores with his brothers. She looked at the picture again. If this "wasn't too bad" how drafty and cold must their apartment be in the winter? Yes, spring had come, but its still must be horribly boring to sit around for hours without toys or anything.

She started to push back her chair before noticing her board games and other dolls sitting in the corner of the room. She glanced from them, then to her perpetually busy parents, and then back to the games as an idea finally came to her. Clara jumped up from the table so quickly that her chair toppled back to land with a crash on the floor. Her father spun around at the sound and her mother gave her a disapproving look before starting to say something about being careful, but Clara cut her off in her excitement.

"I know how I can help!"

* * *

"You're coming to my house today." It wasn't a question. Andrew looked up from his game of marbles to squint at his friend silhouetted against the sun. They'd drawn the circle in the schoolyard and hoped to get a few games in before they had to go back to class, but Andrew would be happy to include Clara if she wanted to play too. But what was this about her house?

"Well hello to you too Clara," said the other boy. Clara glanced at him before turning back to Andrew. Was he Jaaaammes? She thought he looked like a James.

"Hi," she said shortly, "Andrew, Ma says you can come home with me today to play, and then we'll go to the dinner later so you can meet up with your family."

"Ok!" Andrew answered cheerily. That would be fun! He wondered what Clara's house would be like, but just grinned at the chance at getting to spend the afternoon at his friends instead of helping his brothers with chores at their own apartment. "Are you going to play marbles with John and I?"

John! That was his name - weren't there three John's in their class? "I don't play," she gave a slight shrug. "Besides, Hannah and I were going to go to the library instead."

John shrugged. "Sounds boring, but suit yourself."

Andrew ignored the jab and continued their discussion instead, "I can meet you out front after school so we can walk back to your place."

Clara nodded her agreement. "Sounds good, it's not far from here."

"Are you working on a new project with Hannah? Have fun at the library!"

"Yeah, I'll tell you about it later! And I will, thank you!" Hannah called from the side of the yard, and Clara spun on her heel to join her older friend, giving Andrew a wave as she left. He waved back to her before turning again to the marble circle.

John waited until Clara was out of earshot and turned to Andrew. "Wheew, Good luck with that."

Andrew only shot him a smug smile back. "I don't think I'll need it."

* * *

"I have a job for you two to do." Elizabeth Lemay's voice from above their heads caught Clara and Andrew's attention and they put down their school books to look up at her expectantly. "Come along."

Clara scrambled up from her place on the floor and marched to the kitchen after her mother, followed closely by Andrew. "What are we making?"

"Molasses Gingerbread cookies for the dinner tonight. They'll take some time to cook and I'm finishing the poster design for the next charity game night so I can't make them now. If you start soon, they'll be done in time for us to leave. I'll be in the parlor if you need me but Clara you should know how to make them, you've helped me enough times."

"Yes, ma!"

"Good girl. The recipe is in our box, and call me when you're ready to bake them, I don't want you playing with the oven. Show Andrew how to help if he has questions."

"Thanks Ms. Lemay!" Andrew called after her, and she gave him a smile before retreating back into the other room. Clara gave a decisive nod and clambered up onto a chair to fetch the recipe box and molasses from the top shelf of the cabinet and pull them out.

"This should count as school, shouldn't it?" Andrew asked. "This means we don't have to do the math homework?"

"No," Clara said, balancing herself as she jump-stepped from one counter to the next to retrieve the sugar from the other top shelf. "We still have to turn the problems in, don't we? I suppose cooking is math, if you consider the fractions, but I'm sure Ms. Spalding wouldn't approve."

He shrugged and pushed a chair over to the counter so she could climb down, before taking the heavy flour bag from her to set it on the ground. "Fair enough."

"I think this is better math after all."

"Yeah! You get to eat it!" Andrew laughed. "Where are the measuring cups?"

"In the cabinet underneath the counter. No not that one, the other one. That one, yes. Grab a bowl too. The big ones should be in the same drawer."

He returned to the table with the requested items. "I call dibs on licking it at the end."

Clara started to object but remembered that with two older brothers and probably no molasses or sugar of his own at home to taste, he probably didn't have the chance to lick a cookie batter bowl very often. She shrugged and grabbed a wooden spoon from the container on the counter. "Ok, fine, but I get to lick the spoon."

"Deal."

She smiled, and they shook on it, and Clara happily jumped down from the chair with the anticipation of a nice quiet afternoon in the kitchen.

She did not expect to have to bat his fingers away from the bowl every three seconds. Nor did she anticipate chasing him around the table in breathless laughter because he'd successfully made off with the ginger. She finally skidded to a stop and glanced back to the parlor where her mother was still quietly working.

"shhhhh," Andrew mouthed. She giggled.

"Go ahead and taste some, see if I care," she countered. He grinned triumphantly and tried some, before wincing and nearly dropping the bottle.

"I thought it was supposed to taste good!" He whispered.

"Yeah! In the batter! With the Sugar!" Clara laughed. Andrew shrugged and put it down, only to promptly pick up the cinnamon instead, which only made her shake her head. He tasted it anyway.

"That's not any better!"

"You're never going to learn, are you?"

"Nope. One of these things has to taste good on its own eventually, right?"

"Maybe this should be our science class instead," Clara teased, pulling the sugar bowl closer to her. She wasn't going to take any risks.

Quite a while later, once they'd sufficiently tried every ingredient of the recipe, Clara had confiscated the molasses, they licked the bowl and spoons nearly clean as the cookies were baking, and packaged them neatly into a basket, it was _finally _time to head out to the park. The kids didn't waste any time in leaving Mrs. Lemay with their afternoon's work and rushing out to the field to play blindman's bluff, and Mrs. Lemay didn't waste any time in finding Ms. Morris. She was pleased to hear that Andrew enjoyed his time, and soon it was arranged that he stay over in the afternoons every week.

"Is there anything we can do in return for you?" Elanor asked. "You've done so much for our family and the community as it is."

Elizabeth let her eyes wander around the park as she thought, and let her gaze come to rest on the orphanage in the distance. "As a matter of fact, I have an idea of how you could help."

* * *

**A/N:**

**I'm so glad you all are liking this story so far and I hope you enjoy this update too! I had a lot of fun writing it!**

**To Keys the fansie: Thank you so so much for your kind words! They really mean a lot to me! I would love to check out your blog, however fanfiction . net has an annoying habit of censoring out links and web addresses, so I can't actually see what it is beside " - . com – ". Sorry about that! If you could send that again but include spaces in between the words and . com part then hopefully I'll be able to see it again and read your stuff! :) Thank you again for your kind review!**


	4. Make it Count

Ms. Lemay's request, as it turned out, proved to be yet another blessing in disguise for the Morris family. Peter and James began to pick up odd jobs around the orphanage that needed to be done for a little extra spending money after her recommendation that they hire a few extra hands to help with the upkeep. The first of those projects were the old drafty windows, but soon the shutters had been painted, the floors swept, the gutters scrubbed, and the parlor dusted. Fighting the ever-present dirt and dust from the oil lamps and New York streets was a constant battle, but soon the orphanage looked like a whole new building, and the older Morris boys made friends of their own in the older children.

The following weeks and months settled into a comfortable routine. Clara spent the school day as she normally did, keeping to herself and chatting with Hannah about work and her upper level work when she had the chance. Andrew quickly became a popular friend to many in their own class, and made a point to include Clara in their games and conversations whenever the opportunity arose. They walked back to her apartment after school, where they would finish their schoolwork, make food for the charity dinners, and help Ms. Lemay with other jobs around the house. Andrew learned how to mend clothes, cook, and quickly caught up with his schoolwork, while Clara was grateful for the company and Elizabeth grateful for the help.

Everything seemed as if everything could go on pleasantly forever, but a melancholy hung around Andrew anyhow and stained the bright and colorful early July day the dull shades of brown and grey. He tucked his chin into his coat collar and his hands into his pockets in an attempt to shield himself from both the cold and the gloom, so he and Clara walked home in an odd sullen silence. Clara noticed Andrew was in one these rare pensive moods, and she asked him what could be the matter.

"Nothing's the matter. I'm just thinking," he answered, and kicked at a pebble.

"Are you mad at me?" She asked hesitantly.

"No! Why would I be mad at you?"

She shrugged, "I dunno. That was my best guess."

Andrew shook his head and gave her a reassuring grin, slightly dreading the idea that he might have done something to worry or offend her. "No, I'm not angry with you." He paused, thinking back to earlier in the day when he'd had yet _another _classmate shoot down the idea to invite her to the conversation. "I'm angry that the other kids talk about you behind your back."

"Oh." She paused to consider this, almost as if that was an improvement from her guesses. "What do they say?"

He shook his head. "It's not important, don't worry about it. I try to defend you."

Clara shrugged and hastened her pace to get home sooner. It was so _hot_ and sticky and now her face flushed now with an odd embarrassment. "It's alright Andrew. That sort of thing doesn't bother me at all, you know?"

"Really?"

"Not in the slightest." She gave him a winning smile and tightened her grip on her books. "I don't care what they think - if they don't like me then that's their problem. I have my friends! Hannah! And You! That's enough for me."

At this, Andrew's face darkened again and he resumed his pebble kicking. Clara sighed loudly again, "_Now_ what's the matter?"

He sighed and steeled himself for the inevitable reaction that would follow from really answering her question. "We're moving. Again."

She stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. "You're _what?!_"

"Moving." He cast his eyes on the ground and kept walking. He lost his pebble when it skittered away from him and into the crowds of people milling about on the street, so he settled for scuffling his feet along the cobblestones instead.

"Where?"

"Out west somewhere."

"Why?"

Andrew gave Clara a tired look. She always asked so many questions, and he knew this conversation would only lead to an interrogation. It didn't make it any easier. "Did Hannah ever tell you about the homesteader act?"

"Yeah… what does that have to do with anything?"

"My pa works for the railroad, and they're looking for a team to go out and build the next set of tracks through to Santa Fe. If we go, we can have a plot of land to start our own farm – our own home, and really make it! Da says it's a great opportunity, and there's work for all of us on the teams until we can get our own place set up." His dejected tone failed to make the sunny proposition sound all too convincing, and Clara frowned at the ground.

"Well, that's good I suppose! How exciting for your family!"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"Don't you want to go?"

He shook his head. "All my friends are here! I'll miss John and Millie and the rest of them, even though they can be mean sometimes, they all are good kids. And you! I'll miss you and cooking and going to the orphanage!"

Clara frowned again and opened the door to the apartment, "When are you moving?"

"The end of the month."

"It's already the 8th!"

"I know!" They trudged up the stairs to Clara's apartment and she dumped her books on the table as soon as she got in before flopping onto the couch with a long sigh. Andrew followed her and continued, "Mom wants me to help pack starting next week, so I won't be able to come here after school either! They only told me yesterday, otherwise I would have told you earlier."

"I thought you said your parents didn't even come with a trunk," Clara grumbled under her breath.

"They didn't."

She sighed again. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss you too." He forced a smile and tapped Clara on the shoulder, "But I won't be totally gone, right? We can still write to each other! Maybe you can visit me! And we have almost a whole month to do fun things until I leave, that's a lot of time."

Clara brightened slightly at this, and Andrew continued, "It'll be a grand adventure I'm sure, think of how much there is to explore out there. I'll be able to tell you all sorts of stories. And we do have school to still hang out so even though I can't stay in the afternoons, we'll still see each other there! And at the dinners! We can make the next month last. It'll be great!"

Clara finally grinned "We'll make it count."

* * *

It was a couple weeks later when Clara rushed into her classroom, turned in her homework in the bin in the front of her room, and quickly took her seat next to Andrews desk. She pulled a piece of fabric from her bag, eager to show him the progress she'd made on her newest sampler last night, only to realize that he wasn't there. Odd. He normally arrived before her. Maybe he was held up by some chores or something.

She turned her attention back to her sampler to pass the time, and the chatter of the room faded to the background as she focused on the letter "L' she had to do next. When she was finished, it would say "We become what we love, and who we love shapes what we become." It was a quote she'd found in an old book in her father's library, and thought sounded beautiful, so she centered it on the embroidery hoop and started working at it in a golden yellow color. She would stitch a nice frame around it in her favorite blue thread later, once the lettering was done. And perhaps she would add red flowers around the border on a green vine. Her mother had one like that on the wall in their hallway, and she always thought it looked so nice…

Mrs. Spalding's voice shook her from her focus, and she tucked her project back into her bag. Andrew still hadn't arrived, and he didn't show all through the morning either. Even though she normally enjoyed her work and could focus, she found herself frustrated and distracted without the company of her friend to keep her from getting bored. The lunch bell was a welcome relief and she quickly gathered her things to get out of the schoolroom as fast as possible.

Andrew's friends gathered as they normally did in the one corner of the schoolyard, and Clara sat aside for a minute, wondering if she should go meet them before squaring her shoulders and marching over to the group. John looked up at her as she neared them.

"Oh, hi Clara."

"Do you know where Andrew is?"

John shook his head. "We haven't heard from him. Why?"

"Just wondering." Clara turned to leave, but John's voice called her back.

"Um… Clara! Do you want to play with us today?"

"Yeah!" Millie grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back, moved by some strange random act of goodwill. "We have a jump rope and some chalk if you'd rather do hopscotch. And I'd love to see the sampler you were working on earlier! Andrew did tell me the other day that you were a wonder with needle and thread."

Clara smiled hesitantly at this unexpected display of friendliness and finally nodded. Maybe she'd made more friends this year than just Andrew.

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone, I'm sorry this is late! I got caught up in a school project and just... somehow forgot to update? I'm back now, and I'll keep publishing on Sundays, so this won't change the schedule at all - we'll just have a two-post week instead (I set reminders this time lol). Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad you're liking the story so far! And to Keys the Fansie: Thank you for sharing that link again! I'll be sure to check out your stuff too and review over on your blog!**

**A brief note on the history: Even though American schools today run for 9 months of the year and take a break during the summer, it wasn't always done that way! In rural areas, kids would go to school during the summer and winter months instead and help on the farms during the planting and harvesting season. Meanwhile, Urban schools were open nearly year-round with an optional "come when you can" type of attendance expectations. It wasn't until the early 1900s that a formal "school year" was standardized with the rise of child-labor laws. This is why Andrew and Clara are still attending school in July here! I try to include little historical details like this as often as I can, so if you enjoy them, or if you can spot the references to historical events (like the Homesteader Act mentioned in this chapter too), let me know! **

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	5. Promise

_July 27th, 1891_

Clara curled up on the couch reading her newest library book, The Wizard of Oz. Her doll nestled snugly in her elbow, and rain spattered lightly on the windowpane. Her mother sat at her writing desk addressing letters to some charity dinner, and her father moved to open a window to the cool of the evening breeze, when their peaceful evening was interrupted by a sudden, urgent, knocking. Her mother stood up from her chair and pulled on her dressing-gown as her father answered the door. The Morris parents stood huddled outside in the hallway, except for Andrew, who was being held by his father in a bundle of blankets so large Clara could barely see his sandy hair sticking out from the fabric.

"Are you all ok?"

"We didn't know where else to go."

"Come in, quickly"

They moved into the parlor and Mr. Morris set Andrew down on the couch beside Clara. Her father shooed her away, but she hovered by his elbow as the rest of his family explained their sudden arrival. Andrew fell ill a few days ago, hence his absence in school, but had taken a turn for the worse tonight, and they thought he needed a doctor. Mr. Lemay fired off question after question to gauge more information about the young boy's condition and only grew increasingly concerned with each new answer. He shooed Clara away again. She stuck her tongue out and refused to move from his side.

He tried moving Andrew's arms and legs and head, pushing against them and feeling for some invisible sign. Mrs. Lemay put on tea for the rest of the family and ushered them into the dining room where they could wait. Clara followed reluctantly after a hard glare and a snap of her mother's fingers that made it clear there would be no room for argument. It didn't take Mr. Lemay long to make a diagnosis and take Andrew away to an upstairs room. He shut and locked the door behind him on the way out before coming back downstairs to the kitchen to meet the anxiously waiting family.

"Will he be alright? What is it?"

He sighed heavily, and Clara cringed at her fathers troubled look that could only mean that something was very, very wrong. "Polio."

"Will he be ok?" Eleanor Morris asked. Her voice cracked and it was clear she was holding back tears with the dread that only a worried mother knows. The summer sickness infamously only brought suffering in its wake, and though they all knew the risk came every year – especially to those living in poorer tenements - it didn't make the news any easier.

"He will survive," Mr. Lemay answered hesitantly. "It's very good you brought him here as soon as you did. I will be able to help him through the next weeks, possibly months, of recovery, and we'll hopefully be able to…" he stopped, considering his next words. "…to minimize the damage." Mr. Lemay looked to the worry-worn faces and softened his voice in an attempt to comfort them. "He's a strong boy, and what is he now? 9?"

"My age, dad, I'm ten now," Clara corrected.

"Yes, he's a bit older than the children who are normally most susceptible to the illness. He will recover in time."

The Morris's considered this as they glanced at each other. Months… Mr. Morris twisted his hat in his hands. "Don't you have any medicine or something that can help him recover faster?" Clara noticed the anxiety in their look, and something clicked. She gasped softly and skirted around the table to check the calendar hanging on the wall by the pantry. The adults didn't notice her, and continued talking.

Mr. Lemay shook his head somberly, "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do now, beside keep him comfortable until the fever breaks. Then I'll be able to help him regain his strength, but again… it will take time. I understand you want to him to feel better sooner rather than-"He stopped as Clara tugged on his jacket. "What, Clara? Can't you see we're in the middle of something impor-"

"They're moving," She interrupted, holding up the calendar and pointing at the next week. "All of them. Out west." She looked at the Morris's now, "On the 30th, right? That's only in a few days!"

Mrs. Morris nodded quickly. "If the fever breaks in the next few days, will he be alright to travel, as long as he takes it easy?"

"No," Mr. Lemay answered. His voice was sorrowful, but stern. "Polio is such an epidemic – you know that. It's much too dangerous to risk. Since it affects children, and people who are already weak – it could spread to your other children, or the others you travel with. It could devastate the population there. He has to stay here, for at least two weeks, until we're _sure_, he's not contagious anymore." He gave Clara a stern look. "That goes for you especially. You mustn't get near Andrew until he's better." His tone of voice let Clara know that there would be no argument, no matter how much she wanted to check on her friend.

"Could you possibly postpone the move until the fall or winter?" Mrs. Lemay asked in an attempt to give some helpful suggestion, instead of just adding to the dire news.

Mr. Morris shook his head. "The company wants us to go immediately. If I tell them no, we'll lose our jobs. It's done."

"Perhaps we could find other jobs?" his wife suggested. "Here in New York, to stay close. We can always find another train company going West, couldn't we?"

"I can try to find you positions in the orphanage," Mrs. Lemay offered. "If there are any openings, I'll put in a recommendation for you."

"And you could still ask your supervisors if you could go with the next crew? There's always a chance they may agree," Mr. Lemay added. "We can keep Andrew here until he heals."

The Morris's considered, exchanging an unspoken word again through a glance, and nodded. Armed now with a hope and a plan, they bade a wistful goodbye to their son through the door of the upstairs room and started home to tell their other boys the news. And left with the sudden quiet of the late evening and helpless to help anymore at the moment, the Lemay's decided to settle down for the night. Hopefully the morning would bring more answers.

The next day did not bring more answers or good news. Nor the next one. Nor the day after. The clock slowly crept forward, and every new hour brought another complication to the finely made plans of that night earlier in the week. The orphanage had no more positions open to work, already struggling to earn enough money from fundraisers as it was to run their ordinary operations, much less take on new full-time hires. Exchanging a meal for an odd job, now that would be one thing, but it wasn't enough. The railroad bosses scarcely glanced at Mr. Morris's request for a later deployment. The rent was coming due on their apartment, and with no-where else to turn to on such short notice, the Morris's were seemingly faced with only two options.

Leave Andrew in New York. Or. Face the idea of unemployment and homelessness.

Despite the comfort of knowing the Lemay's would take good care of Andrew; despite knowing they could send for him later on after they had settled into their homestead; despite the promises of a home and land to themselves out on the plains and a steady job and food; despite knowing that, ultimately, this was for the best, it didn't make the decision any easier.

On the eve of the assigned moving day, the family gathered into Andrew's small sick-room. Mr. Lemay opened the door, only for this occasion, so they could say good-bye before leaving on the reasonable assumption that the older age and strong immune system of his older brothers and parents would be able to resist the disease. Clara, on the other hand, was instructed to stay put in her room until after they had left, and so she listened to the proceedings under the crack in her door. She held her doll tight and the tears back, and said a silent prayer of hope that everything would turn out ok after all.

Andrew tossed in bed as he heard the sound of the door squeaking open. That usually meant that the kind doctor had returned with some blankets or a cold glass of water or his dinner, so he rolled over to see who was coming into his room. Upon seeing his family, his eyes widened and he struggled to sit up and smile for them.

His mother and father rushed to his side to embrace their son, quickly followed by his older brothers who nearly tackled him back into bed. He laughed – overjoyed at finally seeing them again – but the laughter turned to fits of coughing that wracked his small frame and forced him to lay back down. Peter and James drew away and gave Mr. Lemay an anxious look. His mother brushed away the sweaty hair with a gentle hand and planted a kiss on his head.

"Is he ok?" one brother whispered.

Mr. Lemay nodded, "He's improving."

"Ma! Ma!" Andrew finally made out.

"I'm here, sweetie. I'm here. You're going to be ok. You'll be ok," she whispered, half sobbing already. "Your friends are going to take care of you, ok?"

"Am I going home?" He rolled over again and laid down on his pillow. Sitting up was so exhausting. Why was he so cold? He weakly pulled the blankets up over his chin.

"Soon," his father answered. His voice caught in his throat. He couldn't lie to his son. He couldn't. "We have to go away now, but you'll come home soon."

"Why are you going away?" Andrew mumbled. Ma and Pa and Pete and James were here. Everything was fine now, wasn't it? "Come back."

"We have to, sweetie. We don't want to but it's the only way for you to be safe," Mrs. Morris said softly. Quiet tears streamed down her cheeks. "You'll be ok. You'll come see us soon."

"And then we'll be together again?"

"Yes, then we'll be together again," his father answered.

"Ok." That was enough for Andrew. "Together is good."

Ms. Morris's voice cracked as she leaned in to give him another kiss and whisper in his ear. "We have to say good bye now, Andrew."

"I don't very much like good byes."

Peter leaned in first. "I'm sorry Andrew, I don't like them either. Be strong, ok?"

"Strong like you?" Crutchie smiled up at his big brother, who would carry him on his shoulders and swing him around the room when he was sad, who would always know just what to say.

"Heh, yeah, I guess so. You're the strongest though."

"Thanks Pete."

"Love you, Andrew."

"Love you too."

Pete didn't say good bye – he bent to give his baby brother a hug and quickly turned to leave the room. Andrew would be ok, and that was enough for him. James was next. He leaned in close to whisper to his best play-mate.

"Hey. Out West, there's all sorts of adventures to have! We're going to have all sorts of fun, ya know, when you come out to us. Think of all the pranks we could pull, huh. You gotta get better for that," his tone was light, but he couldn't disguise the melancholy in his expression, and he shook Andrew's shoulder to get the attention of his slowly slipping into sleep younger brother. "You gotta promise me."

"Promise." Andrew grinned. "I don't wanna be sick anymore either. Funny you're the one saying that."

James gave him a sad smile in return. "_Promise_ you'll get better?"

"I promise," Andrew said, seriously this time. James fell onto him for a hug before pulling away and joining James out in the hall. With nothing left to say, his parents gave Andrew one final hug and kiss and pulled away.

"Love you Andrew."

"Love you."

And with that, the door shut yet again.

**A/N: I know, I know this is sad and I'm SORRY. In the musical, Crutchie is assumed to be an orphan with the rest of the boys but I really don't like the idea that EVERYONE'S parents are neglectful/abusive/dead because it doesn't make sense statistically speaking, and it's not practical or historical either. This is my way of reconciling canon plot with my own personal head-canon that he had a good family. Circumstance just happens to be unexpectedly coincidental. **

**I also realized when I started to edit this that even though I wrote it months ago, I stumbled into either the worst or the best time to be publishing this chapter, given what's going on in current events with the flu and coronavirus (no cigar jokes to be had here, sorry), depending on how you look at it. Again, Circumstance just happens to be unexpectedly coincidental, so I decided to make the best of this opportunity to show that: yes, an epidemic is a very scary thought, and no, these are not things of the past, but that doesn't mean we have to live in fear of the consequences. Now is the best time to reach out to each other (with adequate handwashing) and *help* because that's the way we'll get through this. **

**I hope that this chapter can be a source of hope that things will be ok in the end, and I promise the next chapter will be more heartwarming. **_**Promise.**_


	6. Progress

_August 8__th__, 1891_

Clara sat on the floor on the other side of Andrews's door with her doll and her bookbag, scowling at the locked handle. He'd been quiet for DAYS and even though her father said that he was on the mend, she still couldn't go into see him. It'd been nearly a week now since his family had left, and melancholy had descended upon the whole house like a stubborn fog.

"Hey!" she called. There was only a muffled groan from the other side of the door. "What are you doing in there?" No answer. "I'm sure you're bored because I sure am. You need to get better soon."

"I'm stuck in bed." Came the muffled reply.

"Do you feel ok?"

He made a noncommittal noise. Clara frowned nervously and twisted the fabric of her skirt in her hands as she tried to come up with a way to cheer him up, before finally lighting on an idea and reaching into her school bag.

"That's not a very good answer, you know." She drew a large letter T on her slate and slid it under the door, then a piece of chalk. "Here's a game."

There was the sound of scuffling, then the flop of cloth, and a slate sliding across the floor. "What's this supposed to be?"

"You pick a word or phrase or something and I try to guess what it is. Draw the spaces on the board and write in the letters I guess so I can try to figure out what you're saying."

"I can't give it back to you though."

"Oh." Clara squinted under the crack in an attempt to figure out how to rig a system so they could get things to each other. "Well then how did you get the slate in the first place?"

"I dragged it over with a blanket, but unless I have a stick or hook or something and can't push it back. Thank you though. It was a nice idea."

Clara scrambled to her feet. "I'll be right back!"

"What? Where-"

She didn't hear the rest of his question, or her parent's questioning cries, as she bolted down the stairs. She paused for a second at the front door to pull on her hat and shoes, then ran down the block to the green. It didn't take her long to find a suitably low tree and a suitably thin branch. She eyed it up for a second before jumping to grab the object of her attention. The branch snapped off under her weight, and she fell back to the ground to land flatly on her butt.

She stood up and tried to brush the offending mud stain off her skirt before seizing her prize and running back home. In her breathless excitement at her fantastic new idea, she nearly ran into her father on her way back through the front door.

"Clara?! You know better than to go running off without telling your mother and I where you're going. We were worried. What were you doing?"

"Oh, I JUST went to the park! I wasn't even gone for 10 minutes!" She tried to hide her stick behind her back.

"Why do you have a branch?" He fixed her with the look of curious concern that let her know there would be no evading his interrogation.

Foiled again. "Beeacaaaussse." She tried to edge away but her father caught her, took her stick, and held it above her head. She gave a cry of protest and jumped up at it but to no avail.

"Because WHY?"

"Because Andrew needs it." She stopped trying to grab at her prize and crossed her arms instead. "Can I have it back?"

A Stern look.

"Please?"

"Tell us where you're going next time."

"Yes, father," came the dutiful response.

"And don't bring more things indoors that don't belong indoors, I might have been able to find you a yardstick or something else."

"Yes father."

Her patience was rewarded and her father gave back the branch. Clara seized her prize with a rushed thank you, and sprinted back up the stairs. She called for Andrew and slid the stick under the door.

"Look! Now you can push things back to me! Put them on the ground and shove them under the door with the branch! It's perfect."

She heard the sound of muffled laughing, a pause, and pretty soon the scraping of her slate as it was shoved back towards her. The corner peeked out from the crack, so she pulled it out the rest of the way. On it was drawn a silly portrait of her with two words scrawled in his angular large, all capital letter printing.

_Thank you._

* * *

The stick and blanket method worked well for the next several weeks as Andrew began to regain his strength and health again. Still bedbound, but more energetic every day, he started to hold longer and longer conversations, and keep up with the schoolwork that Clara brought back for him every day. She sat on the floor outside his door with her doll or embroidery or homework and chatted with him while she worked, and he appreciated the company after a long day of boredom and napping.

And the days passed.

As he regained his strength, Mr. Lemay recommended that he might try humming to exercise his lungs. Laying still for so long would leave him weak otherwise, and it would be a way to occupy himself, after all. Andrew gratefully welcomed the suggestion and in the following days, hummed, then sang, through ever song he knew. Faced again with the prospect of boredom and the insistence of the good doctor to continue his practice, he turned to making up his own songs over the course of the day. He performed them for Clara in the afternoons when she came home, and the daily recital gave them both something to look forward to each day.

And the days passed.

Finally, _finally_, he was able to come out of bed as Mr. Lemay deemed him well enough to interact with others face to face again and threw open the door to what they'd begun calling the "Cell". He carried Andrew out of the room in a nest of blankets to seat him on the couch in the parlor, and Clara gleefully followed her father down the stairs as Andrew laughed in delight the whole way. Once situated comfortably, Clara happily clambered onto the couch to sit next to him and now, without the offending door to the Cell in their way, they were finally able to play – almost, _almost_, like they once did in the schoolyard and the park. Playing Town was added to their activities, as was reading to each other, slowly but surely working through the _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ over the next days.

And the days passed.

Though the fever had broken and the worst of the sickness passed, Andrew still couldn't understand why he was always _so _tired. Why he hurt _so_ much. Each morning, Mr. Lemay would bring him down to the parlor to say goodbye before he and Clara went to work and school. He spent the days with her mother, helping with small stationary tasks, like hulling peas, ripping seams, or folding clothes. It was nice, sitting in the sun that streaked through the kitchen window, having things to occupy his time, being helpful, but by midmorning, his hands ached from the work, and his legs were numb, or worse, spasming from sitting on them. Sleep, and playing with Clara when she came home and woke him up, helped to distract him from the pain. But the pain persisted.

And the days passed.

When would his family come back? It'd been over a month now. How long could it possibly take to go West and set up a small farmhouse? Not more than a few weeks, surely? And they would have sent some letters by now. Wouldn't they? _Any time now._ He tried to content himself with the thought that he'd be much stronger whenever they did call for him. He'd be better. That's right. He'd be ready.

The days passed.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this last chapter and that you're staying safe and healthy! **


	7. Letters

_September 13__th__, 1891_

"Andrew, I'm back."

Mrs. Lemay pushed open the front door with her foot to get into their apartment as she fumbled with holding the door keys, a handful of mail, and a large box of groceries. She shut the door and managed to get the keys onto the hook by the door without dropping any of her burdens before making her way to the kitchen table to drop off her groceries. She'd left Andrew a little over an hour ago to run her afternoon errands with a load of laundry to be folded and a promise to be back before long. He normally responded to her when she returned, though, and she made her way into the parlor to check on him.

There she found him, surrounded by piles of odd towels and shirts and fast asleep over an open copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Oh, sweet tired boy. She smiled and took the book from his hands before pulling the blanket up over him. These things would need to be put away before Clara got home, and she began quietly making stacks to return to rooms. The peace of the afternoon brought a sense of contentedness to the house as she went about her chores of tidying up after the two children, quietly humming one of Andrew's catchy songs that were stuck in her head to occupy herself.

Finally, she was able to sit down at the writing desk to go through the afternoon's mail. Business correspondence and paperwork for Mark, mostly. She set it aside for him to attend to later that evening. Correspondence for herself about orphanage work and the church charity events. The _Lady's Home Journal_, she would read that tonight after supper. And… what was this?

A weather-worn and rather stuffed envelope found its way into their mailbox, addressed to one Andrew Morris.

She rushed to the couch and gently shook him awake. "Andrew, Andrew, wake up. Your family wrote!"

Andrew stirred and rubbed his eyes, blinking against the afternoon light. He thought he heard something about family, but sleep clouded his understanding. "Wha? What's the matter?" He asked through a yawn.

Mrs. Lemay pressed the letter into his hands with a smile. "Look, Andrew. Your family wrote to you!"

His smile widened now, fully awake, and he tore into the envelope to pull out the pages of paper. He glanced over them all and handed one back to Mrs. Lemay. "This one is for you! My mother must have wanted to say hi!" He said, before turning back to his letter. She took it and began to read over the small cramped cursive.

_Hello Elizabeth, August 10__th__, 1891_

_I hope this letter finds you and your family well! I cannot begin to express my appreciation for your offer to watch over Andrew while we had to continue West. We miss him dearly, but trust he's doing well in your care and enjoying the time with your daughter. _

_Unfortunately, the mailing address for this letter will be obsolete by the time you receive it, so you cannot write back to us, but we wanted to check in nonetheless. We have reached La Junta and send this envelope from the post office there. It will most likely follow the rail line back the way we came to you on a mail car while we move onto Santa Fe. The conditions are rather cramped on the trains, but when we're working on the tracks, we keep our belongings and sleep in tents pitched beside the tracks. Many of the workers are immigrants like ourselves and you can hear a dozen different languages at any time. The work is hard, but the pay is good and we save as much as we can so that when we finish the tracks, we will be able to able to start our own farm and build our home. When we reach the next major city with a post office, we'll send another letter, and as soon as we are settled, we will send word for Andrew to come to us. We do not know how long this will be, but we pray it will be enough time for him to regain his strength and health. _

_Thank you again for everything you've done for us. _

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Eleanor Morris._

Mrs. Lemay looked up from the letter and smiled at Andrew, who was still reading through the pages of the letters he'd received with a wild grin. It looked from the different handwriting styles that each of his family members wrote something to him individually and he was careful to keep them in order by carefully flipping each finished page forward to rest on his chest as he read the next. She patted his leg and stood up from her place on the couch to put her letter back on the desk.

The door slammed behind her as Clara loudly announced her entrance. She dumped her books on the ground in the parlor and flopped onto the couch beside Andrew. She pointed at the letters "What do you have there?"

He hesitated a moment as he finished reading the final page. "My family wrote!"

"Really?!" Clara bounced excitedly. "Oh, Andrew that's so exciting! It's been so long! What did they say!" Her mother started to chastise her for jumping on the couch but thought better of it given the momentous occasion and let them enjoy the moment.

"Listen! My mom's letter was first." Andrew began excitedly reading aloud. "' Dear Andrew, I hope you're feeling better and behaving for the Lemay's.' Of course, she wants to know I'm know playing pranks," He laughed before continuing,

"' We miss you very much. Your brothers talk all the time about what you would be doing if you were with us now. Our work is hard and long and tedious, so perhaps you'll prefer not toiling at the railroad. We've become friends with some of the other families who are on the train with us. Peter and John both have found playmates amongst the other young men and they're all eager to meet you one day. You'd like the nights here when we can finally rest to sit around the campfires to tell stories and look at the stars. You'd love the stars, Andrew. There's so many in the sky that you almost don't need a lantern, so many more than in Cardiff in Wales or New York where you can't see beyond the streetlights from the ground.'"

"Oh that sounds lovely," Clara sighed. "Perhaps once you're feeling better, Father can carry you up to the roof, on the fire escape, so we can go look at the stars."

"That would be very nice," He answered, voice cracking slightly. "She's worried about me. In the next paragraph, she says about how they didn't want to leave me when I was so sick, and they're sure your father is taking good care of me."

"Can you write back and tell them you're ok? I'm sure they'll all be thrilled to hear from you."

He shook his head. "They were going towards Santa Fe but I don't know where they are now."

"Oh… That's a real shame. You could have told them all about your songs and how you help my mother and how we do school together and play in the afternoons," She started to frown, but noticed Andrew's disappointed look and forced a smile instead. "But how lucky that the letter reached you! What did your father and brothers say? I'm sure they have dozens of interesting stories to tell!"

Andrew brightened at the notion of telling more about his family's adventures and began reading aloud from the letters again. He recounted his father's account of the workdays and descriptions of the other families on the team. Peter's tale of nearly missing the train out of one of their stops when he'd been distracted by a pretty girl and having to run to catch the ladder on the back of the caboose prompted a laugh from Clara as she pointed out it could hardly have been moving _that _fast. And James' distasteful description of the food prompted a meaningful thank you towards Mrs. Lemay (she had since moved to the kitchen to begin making their dinner for the evening), who only smiled back and told Clara to wash up, quickly, and set the table.

Clara sighed loudly in disappointment at Andrew's dramatic reading being cut short by her mother's directive but did as she was told nonetheless. "Once you're better, you have to start doing some chores around here too, Andrew," she announced loudly as she came back downstairs from the washroom, though her tone was unmistakably humorous.

"Tell that to the dress you ruined getting the stick we used to play games back in the cell. I keep folding it when you're at school," Andrew responded.

Clara stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to her job. "You're welcome."

Andrew smiled. As he waited for Mr. Lemay to come home and ferry him to the table, he re-read the letters for a third time, trying to commit every word to memory, trying to hear each sentence in their voices. He could almost imagine James's animated gestures and the silly lovestruck look on Peter's face. He could almost feel his father's heavy, protective hand on his shoulder and his mother's hug.

This stupid polio made him lose them. He loved the Lemay's, they'd been so kind to him and Mrs. Lemay's cooking really _was_ better than the camp food, but he missed his family too.

No matter what, this letter proved something important – that one day, he would find his family again. And that hope was enough for him.

* * *

**A/N: Hopefully this was a bit lighter of a chapter to improve your Monday! This was originally part of the original chapter 7 I wrote weeks ago and intended to publish yesterday, but upon editing, I decided to expand it and change it into two chapters instead. The whole point of the backlog was to avoid writing updates at the eleventh hour and here I am anyhow. :P**

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! I'm glad you're all liking it so far!**


	8. Walking

_September 21__st__, 1891_

"…and then John told me that he was going to ask Millie to go to the concert with him, and I almost didn't believe him but then…" Clara's voice trailed off in the middle of her story as she noticed Andrew's head slowly dip to his chest. His eager nods turned from a sign of affirmation that he was, indeed, listening to her, to a sign that he was, indeed, falling asleep. She gave a small sigh of resignation and poked him in the leg with the eraser end of her pencil. She'd joined him on the sofa in the parlor after supper to tell him about her day at school and the escapades of their classmates, but the clock already told 8:00pm and he couldn't keep awake.

"wha?" He started awake and leaned forward. "I'm listnin' go ahead."

"You're sleeping again, Andrew. Why don't I ask my father to take you back upstairs to your bed?"

"I'm ok," he muttered. He rubbed the spot where she'd poked him as if it itched and leaned his head back against the back of the couch again, eyes squeezed shut and nose crinkled up that way he always looked when he didn't want to talk about something.

Clara squinted at him in suspicion. "Are you alright?"

"Just a little tired, that's all. I'm ok. You can keep talking." He didn't open his eyes, and Clara guessed that, despite his protests, he was more exhausted than he was letting on. No matter. She could always finish her story tomorrow. Hadn't she been instructed to let him get his rest so he could heal faster? After all, his family would be waiting for him, and when they sent word for him to meet them in their new home, he had to be ready.

"I'm getting Father," she announced.

"mmhmm."

"I'm glad we agree."

Clara scrambled down from the couch and fetched her father as promised. Clara supervised the process of moving him upstairs and once he was settled in, waited in the hallway until her father finished checking him over and tucking him in before he closed the door quietly behind him as he left. Clara followed him back down to the parlor where they took up their spots on the couch again to read their respective books for the evening. Clara didn't get very far with hers. Her thoughts wandered back to Andrew, and the last months, back to him, and after two pages, she put it down and nudged her father with her foot.

"Yes, Clara?" He asked looking up.

"When is Andrew going to be better?"

Mr. Lemay's eyes widened in surprise at the sudden question, before he gave his daughter a comforting smile and pulled her closer. She leaned up against him and played with a loose string on her sleeve.

"He's doing much better already – you've seen how much of an improvement he's made, and you've been such a large part of that. It must be exciting to see him doing so well…"

"But he's not well. Not yet, at least. He's always sleepy, and I think he's not telling me that he's really not ok. He won't even get out of bed. He used to play tag and climb on things and stuff and now he just… sits there." She gave her father a sobering look. "What's wrong with him?"

Mr. Lemay gave a long sigh and rubbed his head. "The sickness, Polio… it's a very dangerous disease, and it can leave its victims very weak for a very long time. Andrew is really very fortunate – many don't make it, and his breathing is strong and normal. This is all good, you understand?"

"Yes," Clara paused and looked up at her father again. "But when will he be _better_? Like walking and playing _better_?"

"I'm sorry, Clara, I don't know." He turned her around so they faced each other. He could look her in the eye now and held her hands in his. "His legs are crippled – he might not walk again."

Clara gasped and pulled away. "No! That's not fair!" She shot to her feet and threw her book to the floor, staring at her father in wide-eyed disbelief.

"No," he admitted tiredly, "No, it's not."

"But you're a doctor! You have to fix his leg! You can heal him! Can't you?!"

"I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do at this point, Clara!" He argued back, "I want to help him just as much as you do but-"

"You can't just GIVE UP on him!"

* * *

Andrew groaned and rolled over in bed – his legs were too sore to sleep, though laying down seemed to help a bit, and as he stared at the ceiling, he couldn't help but catch the faint sounds of arguing through the thin floor-ceiling dividing his room from the parlor below.

_Might not walk again._

No. No. It couldn't be. Could it? He had to walk again. He HAD to.

Andrew threw the covers off of him and pulled his legs to his chest. Maybe he was just being a baby. Hadn't Peter told him to get strong? Hadn't he promised James to get better? He could walk. He could prove it. He put one foot to the ground.

_You can heal him! Can't you?!_

They Lemay's did so much for him already… He had to try. He had to at least try for them. Next foot. The hardwood floor felt cold on his bare feet and sent a shiver up his spine.

_You can't just GIVE UP on him!_

He wouldn't give up on himself either. With a final burst of energy, he pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet. He teetered for a second, grabbed the bed frame for balance. He did it! He was standing!

The pain shot up through his right leg. He tried to take a step, but his legs wouldn't move where he told them to go. His ankle twisted beneath him, and he hit the ground hard.

* * *

Clara stopped shouting and her father stopped his attempts to reason with her when they heard the thump, then cry of pain from upstairs. Both rushed upstairs to the room, only to find a teary-eyed Andrew curled up on the floor, holding his right leg to his chest. Clara rushed to him, tears pricking at her own eyes, and tried to pull him up.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered and swiped the tears from his eyes.

"What are you apologizing for?" Mr. Lemay asked. He scooped the smaller boy into his arms and placed him gently back in bed. Clara sat next to her friend with a protective hand on his shoulder and an expectant stare fixed on her father.

"I just wanted to walk. I thought I could do it…" His voice was cut off by a small sob. "I just want to walk."

Mr. Lemay looked from Andrew to his daughter and back to Andrew – the two small, scared kids looking to him for help and comfort and looking to each other for friendship and strength – and made his final decision.

"You will, Andrew." He grasped the boy's hand in his own. "I promise you, you will."

And with this simple assurance, and a hug goodnight, and the hope that everything would somehow be better in the morning, both children quietly went to bed.

* * *

_September 30__th__, 1891_

Clara wandered slowly home from school chatting quietly with Hannah about the events of the school day and their most recent scheme to start a charity clothing drive at their school. As a follow up from their first conversation with Andrew, the girls took it upon themselves to organize something that could help other recent immigrants and poor workers in their area and decided on the idea after one of the weekly meals hosted by the orphanage. They'd been working on it for months now, on and off. The logistics of such an ambitious scheme had to be detailed and well planned, and it would take an adult, or several, to launch the project. They wanted to make sure their idea was foolproof before they pitched it to any grownups, but the other students had been more than enthusiastic when Clara announced the idea to her friends at recess so both girls were hopeful for the success of their event. They even hoped to offer a prize too, for the class that donated the most clothes, and when Clara parted ways with Hannah, she continued meandering towards home, turning different options over again in her head as she considered what could be the best plan.

She almost missed the massive package sitting by the front door of the apartment building near the mailboxes as she walked past. She pushed the door open and started two steps up the first flight of stairs before realizing something was amiss and making an abrupt about-face to investigate. The package was long and light and wrapped in heavy brown paper. The label was addressed to her father. That was curious. He rarely got mail like _this._

Her previous thoughts of the clothing drive temporarily forgotten, she grabbed the parcel and hurried up the stairs to throw open the front door. Andrew, who was sitting on the couch in the parlor doing a puzzle, looked at her curiously as she rushed past

"Are you ok? You're pretty late. What's that?" He asked, straining his neck from his seat to see.

"Sorry! I'll be right back," Clara answered shortly, before dropping her schoolbag unceremoniously on the ground and heading for her father's office. Her mother's request to please stop doing that and to place it neatly on their new coat rack by the door instead faded behind her, unheeded.

"Da! Da!" Clara sprinted up the stairs two at a time, careful not to bash the package against the walls in her excitement. "What's this?!"

Her father looked up from the desk and smiled as he took the parcel from his daughter. He set it down gently on his desk and reached for a pen. Very slowly and deliberately, he crossed out his name on the label and wrote in Andrew's. Clara's eyes grew wide as she watched over his shoulder, and she silently followed him back downstairs to the parlor. Andrew sat up straight as he saw them coming back. Mr. Lemay gave him the parcel, and he looked blankly from the label to his friends and back to the label.

"This is for me?"

"Well, Open it!" Clara yelled, overwhelmed now with curiosity. Andrew grinned and tore into the paper wrapping before shouting in excitement as the gift was revealed. It was a beautiful and sturdy wooden crutch. He ripped it from the rest of the wrapping and launched himself off the couch without a moment's hesitation as Clara shrieked in delighted surprise. He lost his balance with the momentum of his first exciting movement and took a few clumsy steps before stumbling. Mr. Lemay caught him and steadied him on his feet with a pleased grin.

"Careful, boy," he laughed. Andrew beamed up at him and threw his other arm out to steady himself as he searched for better footing. And there, for a split second, he forgot about the fatigue. He forgot about the pain. And he _stood._

His next steps wobbled and his legs shook uncontrollably but supported by Clara and his new crutch, he learned how to lean on it and support himself. Without having to balance his weight on his right leg which dragged uselessly on the floor behind him, he could stand easily on his own without falling over. Soon enough, with more practice, he slowly but surely limped in a full lap around the room. Balance, step off with the crutch, push forward with the good leg. Balance, step, push. Balance, step, push. He couldn't do anything about the fact that his right leg just refused to move for him, but his left, though weakened from the sickness and the long time spent bedridden and inactive, could still function and it was only a matter of time before it would relearn to walk again.

_I'm walking again._

Clara couldn't stop laughing in excitement and delight at seeing Andrew so happy for the first time in months. Even with each shaky step, he gave her a wild excited smile that seemed to say "Look at me! I did it! I'm doing it again! Look!"

"Ah, careful! Don't step on my toes!"

"I _can_ step on your toes!"

"I know!"

"There you go!" Mr. Lemay cheered from the side. Andrew flashed him a grin before turning back to Clara and giving her a mischievous smile.

"I bet I'll win all our games of tag from now on," he joked, sending Clara into another fit of laughter.

"Absolutely! You'll be the star of the track team!" She agreed. He pushed off again, and with the adrenaline and excitement, he pulled ahead of Clara by just a hair. "Hey!"

"Keep up, slowpoke!" He laughed. Clara let go of her tight grip on his arm and let him walk alone for a few steps before he started to tip over again and she rushed to steady him.

Another lap and the pain started to return, but it couldn't hurt the high spirits of the room. He made his way back to the couch to stand next to Mr. Lemay, and once he was close enough, he dropped the crutch to the side and fell into his friend, flinging his arms around the older man in a hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered. When he pulled away and sunk back into the couch, his eyes were wet with tears of joy. "Thank you."

* * *

**A/N: This is my take on how Crutchie got his namesake, and in an upcoming chapter, you'll also see how Andrew gets his eventual nickname! Thank you again to everyone who reads and reviews! I love seeing your reactions :)**


	9. A Question, A Scheme

_October 17__th__, 1891_

Andrew frowned in intense concentration, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, as he tried to balance his weight on his crutch and also reach up into the high cabinet to retrieve the plates for dinner. He could reach them before, but now they seemed just a little too far out of reach. A little more. A final stretch, and his fingers seized around the edge of the topmost plate and pulled it out of the pile. It almost slipped from his hand but he caught it, and his balance, just in time to place it gently down on the counter. Success!

A close one. But a success nonetheless. At least the stack was lower now. He reached the next plate a little easier, then the next, until he'd retrieved all four that were needed for setting the table. He grinned at his handiwork before realizing he had to bring them all to the dining room now. This would be a lot easier if he could use both hands. Or even his right hand, which was now occupied with keeping a hold on his crutch. He scowled at the pile of plates now sitting tauntingly on the countertop, insisting to be carried carefully one at a time to the table, rather than all at once as he once could do. He sighed and started the slow repetitive trips to and from the kitchen and the dining room

Elizabeth looked up from her place at the stove and smiled at him. "Thank you so much, Andrew!"

"Welcome, Mrs. Lemay," He mumbled as he fixed his attention at timing his stride to miss the little uneven spot on the floor between the two rooms. His elbow still throbbed black and blue from his last fall, and he didn't intend to make the same slip twice. Balance, step, push. Obstacle successfully avoided, he moved easily to the table in the dining room and set down the first plate before making his way back to pick up the next one.

"You're getting around much better," she observed, "I think that might have been a record trip for you!"

"How long did it take me?"

"Only a minute," She grinned and followed him with a pot of soup as he went back into the dining room with his second plate.

"Really?"

"It took you almost three minutes a few days ago! You're getting so strong!"

He grinned – it _was_ hard to be bitter about not being able to use his right hand when he could _walk_ again. "I told Clara we should get another crutch by gluing and tying a few sticks together and do a race where she has to move around the same way I do. I have more practice than her, so she'd be real slow, and that'd be funny. But Mr. Lemay told her not to steal any more sticks from the park so I'm not sure if we'll have the chance to do that."

"That would be funny," Ms. Lemay conceded, internally praising her husband for his good sense in drawing the line with Clara on bringing outdoor things indoors. She sat upstairs in her room, working on some new scheme for school. "With some more practice, you should be back up to speed in no time. We should start working on your handwriting."

"I can use my right hand to write when I'm sitting down," Andrew argued. "Why should I learn to write with my left?" The idea of doing even more worksheets with his free time and dealing with the frustration of smudging all the ink did _not _sound like very much fun.

"It will give you good practice. If you can control your motions, then you'll be able to do more work when you're walking around. Who knows, maybe you will need to sign something standing up. It's a good skill to have."

"Can you write left-handed?"

"Well, No."

"Then you should practice with me!" Andrew grinned. That had to be a good way to get out of this assignment. He'd finished bringing the last of the plates into the dining room now and started on the silverware. Clara's books and slate lay scattered on the table from a homework assignment that afternoon and he shoved them to the side so he could finish his task.

"That's a good idea. We can start after dinner," Mrs. Lemay agreed in a cheerful tone, and Andrew groaned at the news. Foiled again. She gave him a smug look. "Now don't go turning into Clara on me. I have enough trouble keeping her from growling at me whenever I ask her to do something."

"I do NOT!" Came the indignant reply from the ceiling.

"Then put your bookbag on the hook by the door and clear your things off the table. It's almost time for dinner," Mrs. Lemay responded, raising her voice slightly so that Clara could hear her through the vent. "And you can stop shouting across the house as well if you'd like to prove your point."

Clara dutifully returned to the kitchen and hung her bag on the hook as requested before moving to help with the rest of the dinner prep. Soon enough, Mr. Lemay returned home from his work and they sat down to eat. The conversation started slowly as they all tucked into their chicken soup. It tasted wonderful, especially with the weather taking a sudden cold turn. Eventually, Andrew spoke up again.

"Have you heard any new news from my family?"

Mr. Lemay shook his head and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Nothing since the last letter. Why?"

Andrew's face fell. "It's been more than a month. I just thought they'd have sent something by now." He poked at the carrots floating in his broth. "It can't take that long to settle, can it?"

"In their last letter, they were still building tracks. It can take a long time to travel West as it is in wagon train caravans that can keep moving each day without being tied to a railroad route," Mr. Lemay explained. "It might be another few months before they even reach the location of their homestead. And more to be settled – to build their house and start their farm."

"I didn't consider that…"

"They said they'd send for you as soon as possible!" Clara added hopefully. "If you don't hear anything it means they're making progress!"

Mrs. Lemay nodded in agreement. "Clara's right. You'll have to be patient but we do know where they are, and that they're getting closer every day."

Andrew nodded, paused, and took another bite of soup before looking up again. "Could we send them something back? I know they said they'd moved on from La Junta but they were going to Santa Fe – if we sent the letter ahead of them, it could be waiting for them when they reach the next city!" Clara grinned. Now there was a clever idea.

"Could we send a telegram?" She suggested. "Hannah told me that the telegraph lines from the transcontinental railroad are being expanded too along with the rail lines."

"We could tell them I'm better already! That I'm walking on my own again!" Andrew added, already getting caught up in the exciting idea of it all. Imagine the look on his mom's face when she'd get their letter – she'd be so happy to hear he was ok. They might even send for him right away!

Mr. Lemay considered this briefly. "It's a possibility I suppose. I want to reach them as much as you do. Several problems could occur along the way. There was just an article in the Tribune this morning that the executives from several companies met and are running into money problems with a government subsidy, so any movement along the lines may be halted for a little while."

Clara frowned. "Can I see the paper?"

"After dinner," Mrs. Lemay she said to her daughter, before turning to Andrew and giving him a kind smile. "And after dinner, we can look at a map to find where they might be."

* * *

Andrew lay in his bed later that evening unable to sleep and staring at the ceiling – whether from his aching leg or his thoughts running a mile a minute he couldn't tell. Yes, it'd only been a month since the last letter. That wasn't too long, and he could understand that much. But they left at the beginning of _August. _Four and a half months now. How much longer would he have to wait?

They knew where his family would be. If he did some clever math, he could probably predict where they would be in another month. Only a little further than Santa Fe.

What if he could catch up to them?

They had to build the new rail lines – as Mr. Lemay said, they could stop for days and their progress would be so slow as they carved a path through the landscape for the tracks. But Andrew didn't have that hold up. The rail lines were built behind them – he could just ride the trains out as far as he could to reach their last location. Surely a city couldn't just _misplace_ a whole caravan of workers. If he asked enough people, somebody would be able to point him in the direction of his family. He would just have to a hitch a ride from someone to follow the new train tracks to the camp where his family would be. How simple, really. The hardest part would be finding his family in the camp, but if he looked long enough, someone would know the Morris's. He could see it now, some friendly stranger guiding him through the sea of tents to his family, and they would look up to see him running towards them.

How excited they would be to see him! Peter would think him so brave for traveling so far find them, and James would call him clever, and his father would pick him up on his shoulders just like he used to and his mother would hug him and cry. Andrew smiled to himself. What a grand idea!

He'd need a good plan – enough money to buy food or water, or enough packed to last a few days until he could find some more. He'd need to pack his clothes of course, and his crutch. His shoes were a little worn, but they'd make do. He'd saved a little from when he helped his brothers work at the orphanage, tucked in a little bag in his school satchel hung from his bed. Andrew rolled over and propped the covers over his head as he fumbled for his bag in the dark. He pulled out the little purse and dumped the coins out on the pillow. A little over two dollars.

That couldn't be enough to buy a train ticket, but maybe it would take him a few stops in the right direction. Hmmm. Maybe he could find another job to earn a little more money before he caught the train. Or he could hitchhike. His mother probably wouldn't approve of that, but it was an option. That would be a small problem once he got on the train – there had to be dozens of odd jobs to do around the stations and if he could make friends with the conductor, maybe he could earn a free ride.

Of course, he would miss the Lemay's. He'd been so sad about the idea of leaving Clara and his friends when his parents told him they'd be moving in the first place, and they wanted to make the best of the last few weeks they'd have together. Funny how things turned out.

Could he say goodbye before he left? Clara would probably be all for the idea, but her parents would be much less enthusiastic. If they caught on, they'd try to stop him, and ask him to be patient just a _little _longer, but he couldn't wait anymore. He'd have to leave quietly, so they wouldn't notice he was gone until morning. He had to leave now. He would write them lots, for sure. They wouldn't be so distant after all.

He could do this. He had a plan. He had a goal.

He would find his family, and there was no time to waste.

* * *

**A/N: In case you were wondering how I'm ever going to bridge the connection between 9-year-old Andrew and Clara and anything vaguely Newsies related, you're about to find out. In the meantime, I hope you're enjoying all of this backstory, and I'm curious to hear if you have any predictions for where this is going to go next. Let me know what you think in the comments!**

**On a tangentially related note, I am an ABSOLUTE history nerd if you haven't noticed yet and I found an actual Trib article from October 17****th****, 1891 talking about the executive of the Santa Fe rail line that's referenced in this story while I was writing it. I thought that was cool and exciting so I had to share. If you haven't checked it out already, the National Archives and Library of Congress both have fantastic databases of digitized newspapers, maps, and other documents ranging from pre-Newsies stories within the age range of the characters like this, all the way through the canon timeline and after for all your primary source needs, and the World is a popular one too! **

**Thank you for reading! :)**


	10. The Journey to Manhattan

_October 18__th__, 1981_

Mrs. Lemay sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, enjoying the momentary quiet of the house as she enjoyed her magazine. The rain pattered against the window, and she expected that in a week or two it would turn to snow with the falling temperatures. Today's preparations had gone uneventfully. she woke early to prepare breakfast for her husband and daughter while they got ready for work and school respectfully and saw them out the door on time. Andrew needed his rest, so they were careful to move quietly and not awake him, and he was still sleeping upstairs so she had this time to herself until the sounds of his crutch thumping around the floor upstairs cued her to heat up his breakfast.

What time was it anyway? Mrs. Lemay pushed herself back from the table and took her mug with her to the hall to check the grandfather clock. Already 9:00. Andrew must be very tired; he normally didn't sleep this late. She would have to bring it up to her husband when he returned home this evening. Andrew was making remarkable improvement but he still had a way to go before he would be totally healed. She quietly climbed the stairs to his room and knocked on the door.

"Andrew?" she asked.

There was no response. She carefully turned the knob and cracked the door open to peek in before frowning and throwing it open as the troubling realization hit her.

Andrew was gone.

His crutch was gone too, of course, and his bookbag. The bed was hastily made and when she moved to the dresser, she realized his few pairs of clothes were also missing. He couldn't be _gone_. She'd been awake all morning, before anyone else, and surely, she would have heard and seen him come downstairs. Wouldn't she?

She set down her now-empty cup of coffee on the dresser. "Andrew!" She shouted now, moving back out to the hallway and through the house, hoping that he had merely slipped past her and was now hiding out in some other part of their apartment. "Andrew!"

The parlor and kitchen and privy were all empty. She checked her room, even searching under the bed though she couldn't imagine why he would be hiding there. "Andrew, stop playing and come to breakfast!" Next, Clara's room, but to no avail. She stood at the top of the stair in baffled silence and returned to his room again. She stopped and did a full turn to search the room for anything else amiss, and this time, her eyes alighted on a small scrap of paper sitting on the end table. She rushed to read it.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lemay and Clara_

_I'm going to go look for my family. I know I can catch up to them, but there's no time to waste so I'm leaving tonight. If I can't find them, I'll be back right away. Don't worry about me! Thank you for everything. I'll never forget you._

_Your friend,_

_Andrew Morris_

Mrs. Lemay shook her head in disbelief and rushed to get ready. Silly, hopeful boy. She pulled on her shoes and coat and slipped the note into the pocket as she hurried down the stairs. She paused in the kitchen a moment to scribble a return note on the back of an envelope.

_Andrew,_

_I dearly hope you're reading this before I return. I've gone to find Mr. Lemay to let him know where you've gone and to start a search for you. If you return before I do and find the house empty, please stay here and don't come looking for us again. I'll be home by the time Clara gets home from school. _

_Mrs. Lemay_

She left it on the table, seized an umbrella from the rack at the door, and made her way downstairs to the road. She made sure to leave the door unlocked behind her, should Andrew return. She considered hailing a carriage to her husband's clinic. It would be faster, yes, and she would avoid the rain, but if Andrew were still in the area, she might miss him on the road on her way. How much nicer would it be for her to find Andrew first and not concern the others – yes, walking would be the better of the two options. She started down the street at a brisk pace, hurrying to keep the cold at bay.

How long ago did he leave? If it were anytime recent, he would still be nearby. The poor boy couldn't move very quickly, especially not in this sort of weather. She only prayed she could find him in time. He didn't leave any idea in his note of where he would be _going_ or how he planned to find his family on the other side of the country. He had to be close. She squinted into the rain past her umbrella as she made her way to the clinic, searching the fuzzy figures of the street for Andrew's slight frame or the telltale look of his crutch.

She'd had no luck by the time she reached her destination and braced herself to break the news to her husband. The secretary greeted her pleasantly at the desk and went to fetch the doctor upon her urgent request. He emerged from the back rooms with a puzzled look. "Elizabeth, what's the matter?"

"Andrew's taken it upon himself to find his family. He's run away. Are you busy with clients now or can you help me find him? We can cover more ground if we split up," She explained breathlessly as she handed him the boy's note. He read it over once, then again before giving a long slow groan. He sighed and put it into his pocket before turning to his secretary to ask for his appointment list of the day. She rattled off the names and times, and both of their faces fell.

"I'll be busy until this afternoon but I can take up the hunt whenever I'm done with my day," Mr. Lemay offered. His voice was heavy with concern. "He can't be far. My worry is more for his health, not his safety. His leg still isn't healed and this cold and damp will set into his lungs if he doesn't get shelter and warmth soon. If he gets pneumonia, I don't know how much I'll be able to do to help him."

Mrs. Lemay nodded empathetically. "If he turned back, I left the front door open and a note on the table telling him to stay put," she explained, "but if he hasn't gotten over his silly idea yet, I'll start looking for him in the park. Since he's looking for his family, he may try to go to the nearest rail station in Manhattan. He'd have to walk north along Camden Plaza, and may have stopped at the park to rest, or get distracted."

"That's a good plan. If you find him, please bring him home and get him in bed immediately with extra blankets and some warm broth or tea." Mr. Lemay rubbed his temples in exasperation. Of all the ridiculous ideas. He couldn't blame the poor boy; he couldn't be angry with Andrew, but he already had a few ideas for the lecture we would give him whenever he was found.

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Lemay wrung her hands. "I only hope we can find him before Clara gets home from school. I'll need to be home to tell her the news." What would she tell Clara? Hopefully she wouldn't need to tell her anything. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

"I'll be home at four o'clock. If you haven't found him by then, I'll go back out looking. We should cover north Brooklyn thoroughly first, before we try going across the river. I doubt he'd be able to reach Manhattan so soon."

"Thank you, I'll see you this afternoon," She started to walk to the door but stopped and turned back to her husband, the urgency of her earlier expression melted away to a motherly worry. "I feel sorry for him. It's hard for him to be separated from his family for so long but what a reckless idea. The streets are dangerous, he should know better than this."

Mr. Lemay gave a long sigh. "One would think. Good luck."

And with a kiss good bye, she left to continue with her search.

Andrew shivered. The rain soaked his clothes through to the skin and the cold damp sunk into his bones. His legs ached – both of them now, his right because it always hurt and his left from walking so far. His arm too, from holding his crutch, and even as he took another step he grimaced. He couldn't go any farther. As soon as he could find a place to sit down, he would be the happiest kid in the world.

His fantastic idea of the night before didn't seem so great now that he was stuck in the rain, but he had already come so far, all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge, in the dead of night, and he wasn't about to stop now. At least he wouldn't have to walk all the way to Santa Fe. His family was smart to move to a warmer place. Who would want to live in a place where the air _hurt_ to breath? Not him. He'd be with them soon enough.

Now if only he could find the train station.

He considered turning back, and going back to the warm comfort of the Lemay's apartment and the orphanage, but that posed the same problem as getting to the train station. Andrew was lost, and he hadn't the slightest idea how to get back home. Did he overshoot the path when he was supposed to turn? Did he turn right to head uptown too soon? Or had he turned the wrong way? What if he was walking downtown now?

Andrew gritted his teeth and plowed ahead through the crowd. He could ask for directions, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself either. He stood out enough as it was on the streets with his crutch, and if he asked an adult how to get back to Brooklyn, they'd ask him where his parents were, and if he asked to go back to the orphanage? He wasn't an orphan. This was Manhattan, they wouldn't send him to the one that Mrs. Lemay worked at, no. They'd send him to something called the Refuge, and Andrew had heard enough of Mrs. Lemay's disparaging rants about that place to know that was somewhere he had NO desire to go.

He missed them. He left as soon as he heard them all go to sleep so they wouldn't try to stop him but now he regretted not saying goodbye. If he went back now, would they be mad at him? Andrew scrubbed at his eyes, unsure if his vision was blurring because of tears or the rain, and pressed on through the wall of people fighting for their place on the sidewalk. Someone shoved just a little too hard, the butt of Andrew's crutch slid off the pavement into a slushy puddle, and he stumbled to the ground with a cry as it flew out of his hands and skittered across the pavement, just out of reach.

Nobody stopped to help him, and he didn't try to stand up or crawl to his crutch. He was tired. So tired. So he sat there in the street, fighting back tears, and he decided that he-

Would not give up-

Not there.

He looked up and reached for his crutch, and there, standing a way off and stooping to pick it up, was another boy about his age. He was taller, with dark hair, wearing a newsboy's bag and cap just a little too big for him. He handed the crutch to Andrew with a smile.

"Well, you look like you could use a friend."

**A/N: A cliffhanger! Next week we'll see who this newcomer is! Let me know what you think of this one, I know it's a bit sad but I enjoyed writing this connection scene. I didn't expect Mrs. Lemay to become such an important POV character when I started this story but I really like her, and I hope you do too. :)**


	11. The Lodging House

**A/N: In case you're confused where this scene is coming from, it's a direct continuation of the last chapter, which cut off on a cliffhanger. This picks up where that conversation left off, so if you need a recap, back up to chapter 10 and start from the scene break. Onto the story!**

* * *

Andrew took the proffered help and gave the newcomer a half-hearted smile. "Thank you," he said through a sniff, "Who are you?"

"Name's Jack. Jack Kelly." Jack extended a hand to the kid sprawled on the ground and pulled him to his feet. He wobbled a second and Jack helped him to stand as he steadied the crutch under his arm again. "Where are you going?"

Andrew squinted at Jack to make sure he could trust him. He looked kind enough, and Andrew was more inclined to trust another kid who was alone on the streets than any strange adult. "I was looking for the train station."

"Grand Central?"

"Yeah!"

Jack looked around for any adults that looked like they might belong with the kid, and upon finding none nearby, gave him a puzzled look and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "That's all the way uptown 'nother hours walk! You got folks with 'ya? Might be easier to take a carriage if you're in a rush to catch a train."

Andrew shook his head. "I'm in no rush, and I don't have parents here. I was looking for them, they're going West and I wanted to follow them." He paused, and then added, "I'm not an orphan."

"Where West?"

"I'm not sure now. The plan was to head to Santa Fe, but I'm not sure if they're still there, or if I can buy a ticket anymore."

Jack nodded slowly as he paused and he tried to make sense of this other boy's story, as disjointed and stripped of context as it was, before deciding to focus on the moment of the fact that they were stuck in the street and getting rather too wet for his liking. "Then what good is walking all the way to upper 'Hattan gonna get you, Crutchie?"

Andrew opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, taken aback at the sudden odd nickname. "Why did you call me Crutchie?"

Jack shrugged. "You didn't tell me any other. You have a crutch. Seemed fittin'."

"Oh. My name's Andrew Morris."

"Nice t'meet ya, Andrew." Jack spit into his hand and extended it to Andrew. He only hesitated a second before spitting in his own hand and shaking Jack's. Jack made a satisfied nod and smiled, then rubbed his arms and turned on his heel. "Say, it's freezing and I'm heading back uptown too. Why don't you walk with me for a while? I can point ya in the direction of the station."

Andrew nodded and started alongside him. They walked a moment in companionable silence until Andrew spoke up again. "You can call me Crutchie if you want."

"Really?"

"I like it." Andrew – Crutchie – wasn't sure just what it was he liked about the nickname so much. Perhaps it was the feeling of familiarity it gave him to the relative-stranger that was Jack. Maybe it was because losing his crutch was what brought this new friend to him in the first place, or maybe it reminded him of an old friend. Nonetheless, he liked it, and he smiled at his new friend.

Jack grinned back and adjusted the heavy bag over his shoulder. "You got a job, Crutchie?"

"No. Aren't children supposed to be in school?"

Jack gave a short humorless laugh. "Not if you wanna eat, or have a place to stay at night. You've not been on the street long, that's clear."

"I don't really belong on the street," Crutchie said before casting him a confused look. "You don't either."

"Sure I do. I'm a newsie." Jack's face darkened and he shook his hands to get the rain off of them, or perhaps to shake off some unhappy memory, before shoving them back in his pockets. "Say, why don't you come back to the lodging house with me. I'm sure Niner would let you stay for the night, and we can get you selling first thing tomorrow to earn some money for that train ticket!"

"Really?!" Crutchie brightened at the idea of a dry place to spend the night. "You'd do that?"

"Course, Crutchie! Come on. You've gotta meet the other guys. I'm sure you'll get along great."

They made their way along a line of imposing buildings that Jack informed him was called Newspaper Row. He tried to look around, squinting through the rain to try and make out any landmarks he could use to retrace his steps if he needed to later on. Jack pointed out something called the distribution floor across the street, but they passed it and continued along the sidewalk which eventually brought them to a ramshackle several-story building with a heavy wooden door. Jack pulled it open, led Crutchie up the steps of the lodging house, and opened the door to the bunkroom. Crutchie barely made it half a step through the door before being promptly hit in the face with a towel.

"You goof! That's not Jack!"

"ah, sorry!"

Crutchie stumbled forward in confusion before fighting his way out of the cloth and looking around for the offending culprit, likely the boy with sandy blonde hair and freckles who was trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile, and the guilty-looking redhead sitting beside him on the bottom bunk of the nearest bed. "Thanks!" Crutchie replied with a good-natured smile. He scrubbed it over his head to dry his hair and face. "I'm drenched."

The smug boy gave him a real grin now and turned to address Jack. "Who'd the cat drag in?"

"This is Crutchie!" Jack announced proudly. "He's staying with us tonight, long as Niner says it's ok."

"Who's Niner?" Crutchie whispered to Jack. He looked around the room for anyone who might fit the description.

"Niner's the captain of us newsies. He's still out but he should be back soon," the blonde kid explained. "I'm Racetrack by the way." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the redhead. "And this is Albert."

"You gonna sell with us tomorrow?" Albert asked. Jack took the towel from Crutchie and moved to another room – what he guessed was the washroom – to put it away. Crutchie nodded and he grinned. "I hope I'm with you then – you'll be a good attention grabber, I can tell."

Crutchie moved to the bed across from them and sat down, leaning his crutch against the frame of the bunk bed. What a relief to finally rest. "Oh? how's that?"

"Lotsa kids out there got limps – I ain't ever seen a newsie with a real crutch before," Race said. "you seem to walk pretty good with it though."

Crutchie gave him a smug look of his own and fired back almost on instinct from teasing Clara, though the irony of his currently aching legs didn't escape him. "Betcha I'm the fastest. You slowpokes won't be able to keep up with me running the length of the city."

"Oh yeah? How about a race?" Race challenged. He jutted his chin up in a cocky grin but had to laugh at the new kid's spunk.

"I came all the way from Brooklyn today. You wouldn't stand a chance."

This earned the laughs and the respect of the others and Andrew leaned back against the bed frame in self-satisfied contentment at having made two more new friends. Jack emerged from the washroom, dry now with mussed up hair, and came to join them.

"How many papes did ya sell today, Jack?" Albert asked.

"Thirty-five." He took the soggy newspapers out of his bag and dumped them in the trash bin along with the other's unsold wares. "Can't even save them for paper neither, what with the rain."

"That's better than I's got," Race scowled, "Ended up comin' back early, and tossing some freebees to the bums by sheepshead 'cause I didn't want to carry them all the way."

"Guess a lot of us had the same idea," Albert remarked. Though Crutchie had only talked to these three, the room was filling with other boys as they trickled in from the outdoors, and he'd noticed a few looks cast in his direction.

"Who's all here?" Jack asked. He stood to take a headcount, quietly muttering different names and marking off people on his fingers until he was satisfied that most of them had returned safely. "Looks like everyone."

"Yeah, you twos were some of the last," Race verified.

"You think Niner's still out sellin'?"

"Not anymore I ain't, not in that sludge that they call a street," came a voice from the doorway. An older Newsie – about 16, Crutchie guessed – with curly brown hair and a crooked nose pushed his way into the room. He immediately busied himself with dumping out his bag and setting it up to air out on the nearest bunk. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it over the bed with his bag, and rolled up his sleeves to reveal several scars marring his bare arms. "Jack, you said everyone's back already? Hey Jeb, throw me a towel, would ya?"

"Yeah. I dunno how many of 'em got something to eat yet, I hadn't had the chance to ask," Jack answered. Niner nodded in acknowledgment as he caught the requested towel and started drying himself off.

"How'd yas make out?" He still hadn't noticed Crutchie, who was silently observing the conversation from behind Jack. He finished with the towel and threw it back to a tall newsie – Jeb? – before turning to the two solemn faces of Race and Albert and sighing. "You know what? Don't tell me, I don't wanna know. It can't be good."

Race made a vague noise of annoyed agreement and flopped over on the bed to lay on his back. The bedframe squeaked in rebellion at the movement. Jack stood up. "Hey Niner, I know it wasn't a great day of selling, but do ya think we could bunk an extra person for a night?"

Niner looked up in a moment of confusion before his gaze alighted on Crutchie sitting on the bunk. His eyes widened and he glanced from him to Jack to the crutch, before softening his look and smiling at the newcomer. "' Course. I think we got an extra bed, or else some of us can share."

"Hello! I'm-" Crutchie started to say as he struggled to stand up so he could properly address their leader. Niner held out a hand and moved toward him instead, motioning that he could stay sitting, and bent down next to him instead.

"Why don't you sleep here? Jack'll take the top bunk. Give me a minute to get these others settled and ready for bed. I'll find you some things for the night, and then tomorrow morning after a night's rest, you and me, we'll have a chat, alright?"

"Alright! Thanks again for everything!"

"Not a problem, kiddo." Niner moved on as he ruffled Crutchie's hair, and Jack moved to help get his things for the night. He quietly watched the evening proceedings of the lodging house as Niner moved between the rows of bunks, checking in with each of the other boys. A smaller boy threw himself from the top bunk onto his shoulders. Niner caught him and threw him into his own bunk with a laugh, before tossing a pillow after him with no uncertain orders to go to sleep. Jack returned with a spare blanket and an apple he procured from somewhere that Crutchie took gratefully before Jack joined Niner in the rounds around the lodging house. Before long, the rambunctious newsboys settled into a quiet hum of whispered conversations as they started to fall asleep.

Crutchie spread out the threadbare blanket over himself and rolled over to listen to the city as night fell. He couldn't have imagined that he'd end up here when he started out last night, but an odd sense of both exhaustion and peace washed over him as he laid among the friendly strangers who had taken him in without a second thought. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would only bring new changes and more challenges, but now? He would be ready.

* * *

**A/N: They're inevitable! Because this story starts 8 years before the Strike, the dynamics of the lodging house are a little different from in the play and you'll get some more information on the new (to you) faces and the way things generally work in two chapter's time. Next, we'll hear from Clara. I hope you're enjoying this story, thanks for reading! :)**


	12. The Search

_October 18__th__, 1981, later that day_

Clara rushed up the stairs from school, as usual, throwing open the door to their apartment and dumping her bookbag on the hook on the wall as her mother requested rather than throwing it haphazardly onto the floor. She made her way to the parlor calling after the others about how the clothing drive that she and Hannah had worked on tirelessly since September had finally launched.

Neither answered. The parlor was empty.

"Mother? Andrew!" She called, taking the stairs two at a time up to the upper level where their bedrooms were. She ducked into her parent's room first because Andrew's door was closed, which meant he was probably sleeping, but her mother was nowhere to be found. Curious. Perhaps she'd gone shopping, or run an emergency visit to the orphanage. She went back to Andrew's room and cracked open the door.

His bed was empty.

She pushed it farther open, but the rest of the room proved the same results. Odd. Perhaps he'd gone with her?

"Andrew, are you hiding? Knock it off!" She shouted to the empty apartment.

She made her way back down to the kitchen and cut herself a piece of bread for a snack, then fetched some things from her book bag and sat down at the table to wait for her mother's return. That's when she saw the note – messy and hastily written in her mother's spidery slanting script.

Clara read aloud. "Andrew, I dearly hope you're reading this before I return. I've gone to find Mr. Lemay to let him know where you've gone and to start a search for you. If you return before I do and find the house empty, please stay here and…" Her voice trailed off and a frown formed on her face as she realized what must have happened. The door clicked open behind her.

"Clara! Oh, you're home already, goodness what time is it?" Her mother's voice sounded tired, but Clara didn't turn around as her eyes finished scanning over the lines of the letter. "I must have lost track of time, I'm sorry sweetheart. I have some bad-"

Clara whirled to face her mother and shoved the note at her. "Where's Andrew?"

"He's not here? I hoped he'd return," Mrs. Lemay sighed.

"What do you mean you don't know where he is?! Where's? Andrew?" Clara asked again.

Mrs. Lemay braced herself for the inevitable argument that was to come and took a seat at the table, motioning for Clara to do the same. She took her daughter's hands in hers. "Andrew went missing last night, while we all were sleeping. He left a note saying he was going to look for his family – that he thought he could somehow catch up with them if he hurried. I've been searching for him all day."

Clara paused and considered her mother's story. "That's… That's a good thing. Right? He misses his family so much, of course, he wants to find them." Despite her optimistic words, a distinct hesitation, a sadness that she'd been left out of this great scheme, lingered.

Mrs. Lemay chose her next words carefully. "Yes, of course, it makes sense that he wants to find his family, Clara. And we hope that he can see his family again one day. We're worried that he went alone. The city is dangerous and with the weather turning such a cold snap, it won't take long for him to get sick again. And this time your father won't be able to help him, not unless we find him first."

Clara sat back as the gravity of the situation sank in, weighing the idealism of Andrew happily making his way out West with the reality that Manhattan was a _long_ walk away and he still hadn't totally healed. And though she wanted nothing more for him to succeed, she realized that couldn't be – at least not now.

"How can I help find him?"

"I know you want to search, but I can't have you getting lost in the city too."

"Then I'll go with you."

"What good will that do since you'd have to stay with me or your father. We won't be able to split up to cover more ground. It would be safer for you to stay at home with me, and your father will go out tonight."

"But if I'm with you, then you can watch me, and if all of us go out, then we can all cover more ground," Clara argued, "Plus, two sets of eyes will search better than one. What if he walks past you and you're just looking the opposite way? You'd miss him in the crowd."

Mrs. Lemay sighed, though she couldn't deny that it was a good idea. "We'll talk to your father about it when he gets home. We can have supper as a family and then continue back out this evening. He may say no, as it's getting dark."

"There are streetlights," Clara insisted. "And I even promise I'll hold your hand without complaining. I'm coming."

And with no further argument, it was decided. And though Clara and her parents scoured every inch of their neighborhood, their search proved fruitless and they returned home discouraged, wet, and cold. Clara refused to go to school the following day and continued searching with her mother, but the days passed with no sign of their small friend, and no trace or clue as to where he might have gone. They scoured every block in north Brooklyn where they lived over the course of the week to no avail, before crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and starting on searching through Manhattan.

The day of October 27th brought with it a blizzard that swept down the coast and buried New York in nearly a foot of heavy snow, forcing the Lemay's to adjourn their search. Andrew had disappeared. They could only hope that he had indeed made it West; by some miracle bought a train ticket and traveled safely to reunite with his family, or that some other kind soul had taken him in and sheltered him from the storm. But faced with the reality that he was a small and sickly child in a large and seemingly uncaring city, they had to accept the prospect of simply never knowing.

Even after the blizzard subsided, Clara didn't have the heart to return to school and her parents didn't have the heart to force her to return right away either so they agreed to let her stay home the rest of the week. Sitting alone in the house that was too big and too quiet honestly wasn't much better, but at least she could hide her tired eyes behind the privacy of her bedroom door. She busied herself with cleaning to distract herself from the loneliness, and when she'd scrubbed every surface in their apartment, she turned her attention to emptying her mother's cabbage patch of fabric scraps by sewing new outfits for her doll Molly and practicing her embroidery.

As she stitched, she wondered if Hannah ever finished their clothing drive without her. They planned to collect the donations and take them to the orphanage today – on Friday – but she had no way of knowing what was going on at the school nor did she really want to go find out. They started this donation drive from Andrew's inspiration, to help other poor kids who didn't have a nickel to their name with the onset of the cold weather. And now? Andrew… He'd be disappointed, but he wasn't _here_ anymore and…

She pushed the thought out of her head and stabbed her needle through a particularly tough seam, only to succeed in pricking her finger on the other side of the fabric. She grimaced and inspected her hand for blood, but she'd seemingly spared her finger from that unfortunate fate, and she continued stitching.

Some sound broke the deafening silence – conversation drifting through the vent in her floor. It didn't sound like her father. Maybe one of her mother's friends had come for a visit. She continued stitching. Footsteps made their way up the stairs.

"Clara! Come here!" Hannah's high-pitched voice pierced through the quiet just outside Clara's door. She sighed and set down her work to open the door for her friend before taking her seat back on her bed picking up the project again. Hannah came in and sat next to her. "This isn't 'coming here' you know."

Clara continued stitching. "I'm sorry I missed the drive, Hannah, but I don't feel like talking right now," she muttered.

"I'm not going to make you do any talking. I want you to come downstairs."

"Downstairs to the parlor? Or Downstairs downstairs?" Clara continued stitching. She scowled at a knot in her thread.

"I have a feeling you don't want to do either."

"Correct as always."

"Too bad." Hannah put her hand over the cloth, prompting a protest from Clara, but at least it forced the younger girl to look at her. "I've got something to show you."

Clara groaned but put her stitching down nonetheless and followed Hannah _downstairs _downstairs, pulling on her coat and shoes as they made their way to the front door of the apartment building. Hannah pulled it open and gestured for Clara to go on ahead of her. The younger girl stopped short on the front stoop, gasping in the cold almost-November air. Most of their class, kids from all grades, stood on the street, knee-deep in the snow. Each pulled a sled piled high with boxes and bags of donations marked for the clothing drive. John and Millie called her name and waved at their friend. Clara clapped a hand to her mouth.

"Hannah!"

The older girl emerged from the building and shut the door behind her, and now looked down on the assembly with crossed arms and a smug smile. "Aren't you glad I got you to come down?"

"You did this? You all did?"

"It was your idea and your work!" Millie argued. "We just brought some spare things from home, and we wanted to show you what we did."

"Together," John added with a satisfied smile. "Though bringing the things here was Hannah's idea, as you live along the way to the orphanage. We were on our way to drop it all off, and she told us to stop by first."

"The charity ladies your mom works with heard the story about Andrew," Hannah said, and put a comforting hand on Clara's shoulder. "We're sorry to hear about him, and we knew you'd be upset, so when you didn't show up to school, we decided that we wouldn't let you miss out on seeing the fruits of your labor. Come on, it's cold, and the sooner we get to the orphanage, the sooner we can unpack the things and have cocoa."

Clara finally pulled her hands away from her face to reveal a wide smile and watery eyes. She squeezed Hannah's hand and pulled her friend down the front stairs to join their friends as they led the way to the orphanage.

"Thank you, Hannah."

"Any time."

"We have so much work to do."

"Do we? Unloading the clothes shouldn't take too long with all the help and-"

"No, I don't mean the clothing drive. This is just the beginning." She gave Hannah a grin, the kind of look she had whenever she was scheming up a new plan. "It's only just the beginning."

**A/N: Hello there! A brief explanation: You may have noticed my use of dates at the beginning of each chapter and whenever I need to show the passage of time. I've set this up because, starting here, I'm going to be following the stories of both Clara and Crutchie in tandem through a series of time skips that cover the important parts of the next years between "now" in the story in 1891 and 1899 when the strike occurs. The next chapter will back up just a bit to cover Crutchie's first day of selling, and then we'll pick up from where we left off with Clara. For reference, they're 8 and 9 years old now, so by following the dates, you'll be able to tell how old they are at each stage of the story. If you've read my other story YDC, each chapter will read similarly to the one-shots and short stories in that work until we get to the strike, and then the pacing will even out to your more typical multi-chapter fic pacing style. **

**I hope that makes sense, and I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Thank you for reading! :)**


	13. First Impressions, Rooftop Conversations

_October 19__th__, 1891_

Crutchie awoke to someone shaking his shoulder and he started up in confusion before coming to his senses. He was safe. This was the lodging house. And Niner was standing over top of him poking him awake.

"Hey kiddo, sorry for the early start. Thought I'd let you have the first chance to wash up, and run you through some things before the rest of these bummers wake up and start causin' a commotion," Niner explained.

Crutchie nodded and rubbed his eyes before starting to pull himself out of bed. He grabbed his bookbag and crutch from beside the bed and stood carefully, holding onto the bunk bed to keep his balance. Niner pointed him in the direction of the washroom with instructions on where to find everything, then went back to his bunk to gather his things for the day. A bell sounded outside, and it didn't take long for Jack and Niner's combined efforts to get the rest of the boys moving. Crutchie joined the others as they ventured downstairs and fell into step next to Niner and Jack in the back of the group.

"Where are we going now?"

"The distribution center – it's where the World brings the newspapers – papes, we call 'em – so they can get loaded on the wagons and we's can pick up ours for the day. Mr. Wiesel's the fella in charge of the operation."

"He's a rotten scoundrel," Jack interrupted with a contemptuous scowl. He handed Crutchie a chunk of bread as his breakfast. "Likes to pick on the new kids; tries to scare 'em off, let 'em know that he's in charge. You best steer clear of him, Crutchie."

Crutchie frowned and slowed down so he could stay behind Niner as they approached the distribution floor, now with serious second thoughts about this whole Newsie business. "How come? What's in it for him to be mean."

Niner shook his head pulled Crutchie forward to walk with them again. "Jack's exaggeratin'. He ain't that bad, just a bit prickly." He leveled a tired look at Jack. "He was just the muscle for a while, the same level as any of us, just around to throw newspapers onto the wagons and hand out papes. But the old supervisor quit a while back, and he got the promotion. It went to his head, an' he thinks he can boss us around anymore. Jack makes 'im out to be scarier than all that. Just keep your head high and you'll be fine."

Crutchie nodded his understanding as they came down to the gate and crowded before it, waiting for the floor to open. Race and Albert shouldered their way to the front and he joined them, looking eagerly out at the space. They greeted him with good morning hellos and introduced him to a few new faces he hadn't been able to meet the night before. Soon enough, a gruff man wearing a bowler and carrying a chain of clanking keys approached and began to unlock the chains that kept the gate closed. A few of the other newsies heckled him with comments about his tardiness as they escaped into the distribution floor. Andrew gave the man a half-smile as he passed, hoping he wouldn't notice him hiding behind Jack.

A hand clamped down over the back of his vest, and he found himself being pulled backward. He stumbled into the gate and grabbed it to keep his balance before spinning to look at Mr. Wiesel who was glaring down at him.

"Who do we have here? Another new kid?"

"Hey! I's been here a whole month, I ain't new no more," Albert fired back. Race stuck his tongue out beside him. Weisel turned distractedly to swat at them, momentarily forgetting the younger Newsie.

"And Crutchie here is with us," Jack added, pulling Crutchie out of the way of the older man. He brushed Jack off and smiled winningly at the newsboy's antagonist.

"Mornin' Mr. Wiesel," Crutchie said, touching his cap. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

"Yous gonna be a Newsie? With that bum leg of yours?" Wiesel asked skeptically. He scowled at Niner who gave him a mischievous smile and a smug then joined his boys where they stood to the side of the floor as they waited for the day's wares to be brought down.

"Sure. My voice works, doesn't it?" Crutchie answered. Jack grinned at him. They'd won this match.

Wiesel muttered something under his breath and tossed an old bag at him before barking orders at the others hanging around the floor. They disappeared into the back and brought out pallets of papers bound in twine. Finally, Wiesel set a little locked wooden box on top of one of the stacks, and slapped it once before announcing, "PAPES FOR THE NEWSIES."

Crutchie watched as the troop of boys lined up in front of the window, jostling and teasing each other as they bought their morning papers. He caught snippets of conversations and various nicknames, each odder than the last: Pockets, Blue, Skip, Checkers, Wink, Pitch, Niner (who they also seemed to know as Cap or Capitain) and Race, of course. And despite all these colorful monikers, some of them went by ordinary names too: Jack, Henry, Albert, Mike. His own nickname was self-explanatory enough, but some of them seemed entirely random. Despite his best efforts to find a match between the other's names and their appearances, he couldn't find any real correlation and decided to brush the question off until he'd successfully made his way through the line. He rejoined Jack, and they broke off from the others to begin "carrying the banner" as they called it. Jack's purposeful strides carried him ahead of the smaller boy as he searched for a good corner to start the day.

"Hey. Hey Jack!" He stopped and turned to look back at Crutchie before realizing he'd nearly lost his younger friend and pausing to let him catch up. "Thanks for waiting up. I just got caught up by the crowd; sorry for slowing you down."

"What did you think of your first morning? Good job sticking up to Weasel." Jack answered simply. They started walking again but Crutchie noticed the taller boy intentionally falling into step next to him and smiled.

"I gotta ask what's up with all the names. Is it an inside joke or something?"

Jack shot him a puzzled look. "Whadda mean? I can call ya Andrew if ya still want."

"No that's not it. I want to know how the others got their names. Race? Niner?"

"Race is short for Racetrack for one."

"Racetrack?!"

"Racetrack– because I found him next to Sheepshead an' that's where he normally sells." Jack shrugged. "Checkers always beats everyone at checkers, so that's that. Pockets can't keep his money since it always just burns a hole in his pocket. He'd rather have them full of food and trinkets than coins. I don't know about Blue or the rest of 'em."

"And Niner? You two seem close."

"He's the one who brought me into the lodging house so you could say that. His real name's Sam, but when I met him, he was all but two steps from toppling into the Hudson while running from trouble. It's a long story, but he's had so many close calls that we started calling him a cat on his ninth life."

"That's ridiculous!" Andrew stopped short in the street, trying and failing to hide a grin at the absurdity of that picture. "Don't tell me he lands on his feet after falling from roofs too."

"Yes! I've watched it!" Jack stopped too and looked over the street as Crutchie laughed in disbelief. They'd made their way a few blocks uptown from Newspaper row, "This is good a place to start as any. Yeah, anyhow, he thought that joke was _such_ a riot, he kept the name Niner. I guess I haven't done anything crazy enough yet to get a nickname, but Jack Kelly is just fine for me."

"You seem to give out the nicknames like the papers," Crutchie joked. He turned around, looking for a good place to rest, and settled down on the doorstep of a building before pulling his bag around him and reaching for the first of his day's wares.

Jack made an indignant face, "I don't _give out_ papes. I _sell_ papes." He grinned, turning on his heel to face the crowds. "And I'll show you how it's done."

Crutchie grinned as his friend took a few steps out onto the street, and without even glancing at the headline for the day, threw his arm into the air and shouted out, "EXTRA! EXTRA! TERRIFIED FLIGHT FROM BURNING INFERNO! YOU HEARD IT RIGHT HERE!"

This would be fun.

_October 27__th__, 1891_

Crutchie stirred at the light of dawn and sat up in bed, blinking bleary-eyed at the early morning sun streaming through the window of the lodging house. If he hurried, he'd have enough time to make it down to the washroom and get first chance at breakfast before the others woke. He reached for his crutch and vest and hat. Jack rolled over on the top bunk and hung upside-down over the edge of the bed.

"Where are you goin'? Morning bell ain't rung yet. Go back to sleep."

"Can't." He shivered and looked in his bag. Had he brought a coat?

Jack pulled himself awake now and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "In that case, get dressed quickly. I wanna show you something." He pulled on his vest and shoes before jumping down from the top bunk and reaching for a coat. Crutchie nodded and hurried to pull a jacket from his knapsack. Jack tossed a scarf to him, then led the way to the door to the fire escape. Crutchie winced as they stepped out into the biting cold. Jack helped him up the rickety metal stairs, then clambered onto the roof ahead of him. Crutchie balanced on the top step, considering how to reach the final distance up. Jack motioned for him to hand over his crutch, then pulled his friend up after him. Once safely up, Jack smiled and gestured to the shimmering skyline. "Ain't it nice?"

"Yeah." Crutchie paused for a minute. "You come up here often?"

"Sometimes. More often in the summer, though."

Crutchie laughed, and the cold air hurt his lungs. "Yeah, that seems like the better time to do it."

"There's a cool breeze even in July," Jack answered.

Crutchie smiled in response. "Thanks for showing me your hideout."

Jack didn't answer or turn around from the view. "Are you going to head down? I wanna beat the other fellas to the street." He turned back toward the fire escape. "You know I ain't been walkin' so good."

Jack groaned and turned back to him. "Quit gripin'. You know how many guys fake a limp for sympathy? That leg of yours is a gold mine."

Crutchie rolled his eyes at the now-familiar sentiment the others constantly threw at him and finished tying his other shoe. "Yeah, but I don't want anyone getting any ideas that I can't make it on my own. You've warned me about the Refuge enough. Be a pal, Jack. Help me down."

He made his way over to the fire escape, sat on the ledge, and set his crutch to the side so he could start down. The first step looked like the worst – just a little too low for him to make comfortably – it would be a risk to jump down to it. He glanced back at Jack rubbing his eyes and shifted his weight down. His foot slipped on the icy step, and he made an involuntary cry of surprise as he struggled to catch himself before tumbling down to the landing below. Jack lunged across the roof and grabbed his arm, then pulled him back onto the rooftop.

"You wanna bust your other leg too?"

"Nooo," Crutchie made a face at him. "I wanna go down."

Jack ignored him and walked to the edge of the roof to look over the sight of the city. "You'll be down there soon enough," he said absentmindedly, "Take a moment to drink in my penthouse. High up above the stinking streets of New York."

Crutchie gave him a confused look and stood to join him at the edge. "You're still dreaming."

"Because I like a breath of fresh air? 'Cause I like seein' the sky and the stars?" Jack asked. Crutchie waited silently for him to continue. The view was beautiful. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the clustered buildings below them and curled into the air to join the wispy clouds that brushed the horizon.

"Used to watch the sunrise with my Da like this," Jack murmured. He reached for a pencil and scrap of old paper in his back pocket and started to doodle the skyline.

"Where is he now?" Crutchie ventured to ask, not expecting an answer. His friend insisted on staying a mystery the past few days, and it bewildered Cruthchie to think that after taking him in without a second thought and helping him through his first week of being a Newsie, he still didn't know much about Jack's past. They'd talked, sure, but the older newsie never dropped more than a hint, here and there, leaving Crutchie to fill in the rest of the blanks.

"Them streets down there sucked the life right out of 'im," Jack answered finally, surprising Crutchie enough that he turned to look at Jack. His expression was soft and sad as he continued sketching, occasionally glancing up at his reference material. "Years of rotten jobs. Stomped on by bosses. He always tried to keep me out of it, but when they finally broke him, they tossed him to the curb like yesterday's paper. About… a year ago now." He scribbled in a dark line for the street below them. "Well, they ain't doing that to me."

Crutchie's face fell as he heard Jack's story, and something told him that the great exaggerator wasn't telling any tall tales this time. He searched for something helpful he could say, thinking of his own family making the long trip across the sea, before finally turning back to the city. "Funny that everyone wants to come here."

"New York's fine for those that can afford a big strong door to lock it out. But there's a whole different life out there. You know." He set the pencil down and stared into the distance. "Da used to tell me all sorts of stories about what it'd be like out in Santa Fe. All clean and green and pretty." He shook off his melancholy and turned to Crutchie, resting back on his elbows against the railing. "You got folks there, don't ya."

Crutchie's face fell and he reached for the letter in his pocket to make sure it was still safe. "Maybe there, Maybe nowhere. I don't know. Didn't get far enough to find out."

"When did they leave?"

"End of July. I was too sick to go with 'em."

"Sick from what?"

"Polio. That's how come my leg's bad."

Jack looked from his small friend to the sight of the uncaring city and back again as he mentally tallied the months between July and when he'd found the boy shivering on the streets. Something in his story didn't add up. "How'd ya survive without folks for three months?"

"Don't need folks when you got friends," Crutchie answered, with a warm grin to Jack, but he would say no more on the subject. Jack returned the grin.

"Hey. How bout you come with me? No one worries about no gimp leg in Santa Fe. You just hop a palomino, and you'll be riding in style!" He mimed riding a horse and Crutchie laughed at the tall tale.

"Feature me, riding in style," he repeated.

"I bet a few months of clean air and you'll be able to toss that crutch for good!" Jack exclaimed, his worries forgotten in the excitement of the moment, in spinning a new story for how their lives would be one day, together.

"We'll work the land!"

"Swim the Rio Grande!"

"Watch me run…" his voice trailed off as the memories flooded him and he turned away from Jack. Memories of his first failed attempt to walk, of his reaction when he first got news from his family's letter. The hope of the new crutch. Clara helping him walk again. The kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Lemay. The overwhelming homesickness, not for a place but for the people he cared about, people who were now scattered to the wind, always just out of reach. All his finely laid plans melting around him in the street, but the hope of a helping hand. A weight on his shoulder and feel of the crutch under his arm brought him back to the present as Jack turned him around to look at him.

"Hey, hey. You might not have your old family now, but you's gots us. No way I'll let you down, ok?"

"Ok."

"Just hold on, kid. Together, we'll make it to Santa Fe." Crutchie gave him a sad smile as the peal of the morning bell cut through the quiet of the early morning. Jack sighed. "I guess the time for dreamin's done."

Crutchie laughed and moved toward the fire escape again as Niner's voice came from downstairs, rousing the other boys awake. "I don't suppose you'd let me down, at least to the street?"

Jack laughed. "Alright, come on. Those papes won't sell themselves."

**A/N: Hello all! I hope you liked learning some more information about a pre-canon era lodging house, since I know a few of you were curious to hear more about Niner and the other older Newsies so I hope this answers some questions! I also noticed upon re-watching the **_**Santa Fe Prologue**_**, there's a strange disconnect between Jack calling Crutchie "family" and in the same song asking him about his past as if they'd just met, so this is my attempt at reconciling that by moving that particular scene to earlier in the story. **

**A small announcement in terms of scheduling: This upcoming week is finals for me, culminating in a major exam and essay due next Sunday, and with it also being Mother's Day weekend, I'm not sure if I'll have the chance to post the next chapter on time. If it doesn't go up Sunday, it will be up by Monday or Tuesday. Thanks for your patience, and good luck to anyone else who might be taking finals too :)**

**Thank you for reading!**


	14. Luck Runs Out

_April 27__th__, 1894_

Niner appreciated routine. He had his moments of excitement for sure, but as much as the other boys loved to pester him for tales of his adventures, and as much as Blue loved to tease him about that time he fell off a roof (not his _proudest _moment), those events were few and far between when it came to the long _long_ time that he'd been a Newsie. The "Cat on his Ninth life" much rather preferred and enjoyed the normalcy of his day to day going-ons. He woke at dawn to enjoy the sunrise, and after rousing the boys from their slumbers, supervised their walk to get breakfast at the church and down to the circulation gate. He couldn't control the weather (sunny today, much to his delight), or the headline (meh), or Wiesel's mood on a particular day (nasty, though he couldn't conceive why), the routine was the same.

As he shouldered his papers and set out on his route (uptown a mile, over six blocks, then circling back to the lodging house again), he scanned the crowd for buyers. Any man in a suit who wasn't already carrying a paper was a good bet, as were any ladies in particularly large hats. The papers moved quickly as he made his way along the busy street, greeting the occasional regular or kid with a smile and a nod. Everything part of the routine.

Everything except the skinny kid pushing his way through the crowd. He couldn't be older than Crutchie, maybe 10 or 11 at most. The soot staining his face and clothes marked him as a chimney boy. He clutched a bag of apples for dear life as he sprinted past Niner.

"Hey! Hey, you ok kiddo?!" He called after the boy. The kid glanced over his shoulder before rushing off again. When Niner looked up again, he saw a man with a billy club chasing after him. Without a second thought, he threw his arm into the air and stepped out into the sidewalk, right in way of the man.

"Extra! Extra" The man collided with Niner, sending both tumbling to the ground.

"Get out of my way!" the man growled. He picked himself off the ground, shoving Niner down as he did so, but by the time he'd scrambled to his feet, the younger boy was gone, lost in the crowd.

"Hey! Mister!" Niner scrambled to his feet and grabbed the man's elbow and pulled a pape out of his bag as he spun around, searching for his target. He needed cover, and a way to distract the man, so he improvised, "You must of really been in a hurry to buy this morning's copy of the World!"

The man whipped around, nearly smacking Niner in the face. He jumped out of the way of the man's fist. Must not have much a sense of humor. He roared in Niner's face. "You let him get away!"

"Who?" Niner gave him a dumb smile.

"A thief. He stole a bag of apples and I nearly had him before _you_ interfered."

Niner raised his hands in surrender. "Hey hey, I didn't do nothing. I dunno who you're talkin' about neither," he half lied. The part about not knowing the kid was true at least. Jack would approve of such a smooth fabrication, at least. A small crowd was forming around the two, curious to see the cause and outcome of all the shouting.

"The- The thief!" the man spluttered.

"Look, I just know that _you_ ran into _me_, so the least you can buy a copy while I've got ya here," Niner argued, shaking the folded paper at the man.

A new voice interrupted their argument, as an officer bore down on the pair. "What's going on here?"

Niner opened his mouth to defend himself, but the other man cut him off. "This boy interfered with my chase. I'd nearly caught a thief, and he tripped me."

"No-"

"What did the thief look like? And why were you chasing him?" questioned the officer.

"My name's John Nake. I work for Mr. Snyder, the head of the Refuge – it's a children's home not far from here. The thief was a street kid that got out the back gate, and I caught him stealing apples when I finally caught up to him. I was trying to get to him, to take him back, but this- "he gestured furiously at Niner – "_whelp_ got in the way."

"Hey! I was just walkin-"Niner's sentence was cut off by the officer's hand clamping around his wrist and pulling him forward for inspection as he realized that protesting would only land him in more hot water.

"I suggest that he comes with me," Nake said, "We know how to discipline such upstarts."

The officer nodded and started pulling Niner along the street as he walked beside Nake, towards the Refuge. "I know the type and I've worked with Mr. Snyder in the past. We'll get him straightened out – a week's stay ought to be good for him. And we'll find your other culprit too. He can't be far."

A week?! Niner dug his feet in and tried to twist his hand out of his grasp, but to no avail. The club smashed against his shins, and he had no choice but to follow along with a new limp and a sullen scowl. They couldn't just drag him off like this! What about a trial?! Or a fair say? A chance to tell his side of the story? Blue and Jack would be able to handle the lodging house in his absence, but they'd be worried when he didn't return, and he had no way of getting a message to them. Every Newsie knew the Refuge – either they'd been there themselves, or they knew someone who did. Niner's last run-in with one of Snyder's goons had been years ago, and it seemed their memory of him was every bit as in-tact as his memories of the wretched place. He'd managed to escape them before, but now his luck had run out. He only hoped that it rubbed off on the apple boy.

* * *

Jack was the first to notice that Niner was late. Though it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to be one of the last of the Newsies to return to the lodging house for the night, he would rarely stay out so many hours after dark, and he was starting to worry that something was wrong. Crutchie suggested that he go looking for him, and Blue quickly shot that plan down in favor of starting a search himself instead. As the oldest next to Niner and tied with Jack, and (allegedly) the most responsible, he would be the one tasked with any "after respectable-person hours" searching. With the usual assistance that Blue provided momentarily absent, the task of putting the rest of the Newsies to sleep fell to the last of Niner's lieutenants. Despite the relative chaos that resulted from the infectious curiosity about where their captain had disappeared to, it didn't take long for Jack to get the rest of the boys to bed. Crutchie went to his bunk quietly, without the usual jovial chatter of the evening and banter with Jack, but he couldn't fall asleep and watched as Jack sat awake, drawing, waiting for Blue to return.

He came back several hours later, without Niner, and without news. With the promise that they'd search more tomorrow, and thanking Jack for his part in keeping order for the night, they settled in for an uneasy night.

The next morning followed their routine as closely as Jack and the others could manage. Even so, without their captain's calm and steadying presence no less than three arguments broke out over the silliest of cases by the time they'd reached the circulation floor, each silenced by a stony glare from Jack and a sharp word from Blue to knock it off. The boys lined up to get their day's wares silently and set out on their way.

Crutchie walked alongside Jack, searching for some optimistic thing to say but he knew what was weighing on his friend's mind. There could be hundreds of reasons why Niner hadn't returned last night: maybe he'd just walked too far and wasn't able to return before nightfall, so he found somewhere to sleep for the night. Maybe he'd been distracted by an old friend. He could be hurt or been jumped by a mugger. Or, as Jack feared, he could be in the Refuge.

Crutchie had only heard secondhand stories of the place and its horrors. Mrs. Lemay hearing from a friend how unkind the headmaster was at a meeting; Jack's story of nearly being caught, but the escape from Snyder being harrowing enough to leave a lasting memory; Niner's own vague but empathetic warnings to steer clear of the area. And though he wanted to tell Jack that it'd be ok and that he would be back soon, he knew that could all be empty words when faced with the bleak reality. And so Crutchie contented himself to pointing out what he could find some joy in – the birds returned for the spring perched on the balconies of the buildings, the nice weather, the papers moving quickly, a flower growing between the cobblestones. And so, they continued for the morning, in an odd sense that they had to hurry up and wait.

It was mid-afternoon when another strange Newsie hurried up to them. Jack nodded cordially at him out of respect for his selling spot and started to move on but the boy only picked up his pace to catch up with them.

"Are yous _World_ Newsies?"

"Yeah," Jack turned around to address him and Crutchie gave him a friendly smile. "Why?"

"I'm Keys. I sell for the Sun. Your leader's a kid called Niner, right? Tall, brown hair, broken nose?"

"Yeah, that's right! You seen 'im?" Crutchie asked eagerly.

"He went missing yesterday without a word. It ain't like him," Jack explained.

"Course he's missing! Snyder hauled 'im off yesterday morning!"

Jack went white and his voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "Snyder got him, huh?"

"I saw the whole thing. He stepped in for a skinny kid making off with a bag of apples. The kid got away. He didn't. I woulda done something, but I was stuck in the back of the crowd and had to climb the lamp post to get a good view of the whole hullaballoo," Keys explained. "This ain't my normal spot. I've been looking for one of your _World_ boys to let you know. The Spider won't do ya that service."

"No. No, he won't," Jack answered.

"Thank you!" Crutchie interrupted. "We was worried sick."

"Don't mention it," Keys turned to leave – the more time they spent chattering, the less time they were selling papers after all – but he spun back around on his heel to add a thought. "I don't know Niner personally, but I know he's a good guy. I hope he gets out soon."

Jack smiled now. "Thanks for the news. It ain't good news, but it's more than we had a minute ago."

Keys returned the smile and spit in his hand for a shake. "I hope your headline's better.

* * *

_April 28__th__, 1893_

A jangle of keys, the clank of the lock, and the door to the bunkroom slammed open. Niner didn't move from his place on a top bunk, laying flat and straight on his back to make room for the other boys sharing the bed and using his arm as a pillow, but he did peek out from under his hat to see what was going on. The goon that'd dragged him in the day before came in, pulling a small kid after him that was kicking and screaming at the top of their lungs. He threw them to the ground and kicked them once for good measure, before escaping back into the hallway and slamming the door shut before the kid could escape. The lock clanked shut, the muffled sound of keys jangled in his pocket, and once again, the room descended into the previous quiet, save for the kid pulling himself into a safe corner.

No-one moved to help them up and after several minutes passed, Niner sighed, swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and dropped down to the floor. He could feel the eyes of the others on the back of his neck as he crossed over to the kid and knelt next to them.

"You ok kiddo?"

The boy sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes as he looked up at Niner. "Take one look around where you are, and ask me that again."

"oooh, smart guy, huh? You got a name?"

The boy scowled at Niner's comment before begrudgingly answering his question. "You can call me Finch."

Niner smiled and stuck out his hand. "Shame to meet ya here, but it's nice to make your acquaintance. I'm Niner."

"What're you in for?"

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and stepped in the wrong person's way to let the right person get away. Long story. You?"

Finch's stomach growled. "I likes livin' chancy," He declared, "I thought I _could_ get away, but I guess I was wrong about that. Thanks for trying though."

Niner squinted at Finch through the dim dusty light of evening, recognition dawning on him. "Guess I shoulda said "shame to meet ya again" shouldn't I?" He sighed. "I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you musta been _real_ hungry to risk stealin' those apples. Please at least tell me you were able to eat some of them before you got caught."

Finch gave Niner a look of surprise and gratitude, before smiling as he realized that the older boy truly trusted him. "You bet'cha."

* * *

**a/n: Hello I'm back! This is the first chapter in a longer story within the episodic nature of these time skips, as it takes place two years after the events of the last chapter when Crutchie joined the Newsies. I'll be using italicized dates at the top of the sections to portray the passage of time so you can keep an eye on those to know where we are in this mini-arc, and when we move onto the next time-lapse. I hope that makes sense and I hope you liked this chapter :) Thank you for reading!**


	15. A Seat at the Table

_April 29__th__, 1894_

The walk from the school to Graham Windham only took ten minutes, but today Clara found herself rushing to make her way there on time. She'd started working small shifts a couple of years ago at the orphanage, instead of going straight home after school. Her usual tasks involved helping in the kitchens, and doing homework with younger children, but today she would be sitting in on her mother's planning meeting and she couldn't be late. She'd dallied too long after her last class to get a new book from their small library, and now hurried into the meeting room to take her seat beside her mother only a moment before Mrs. Moore – the head of the board of directors – entered. Clara gave a small sigh of relief and fixed the loose strands of hair that'd fallen from her bun in her hurry and gave her mother a small smile. Mrs. Lemay only gave her a distracted glance and pushed her a pad of paper to take notes. Clara fished in her bag for a pencil as the ladies greeted each other and took a deep breath to steady her racing pulse.

Mrs. Moore thumped a binder on the table to get everyone's attention and started the meeting with a few pleasantries before asking Mrs. Lemay to go over the minutes of last month's meeting. She shuffled through her papers before clearing her throat.

"The first order of business from April was going over finances, all of which were in order, and making plans for a baking fundraiser which we did. Mrs. Miller has the records of how much we made from those sales. We tabled the topic of starting the potluck park days until this month, weather pending. We all know the operations involved in that, so it's just a matter of deciding a date. I suggest this upcoming Sunday, at the start of June."

"Motion seconded."

"Motion passed," Mrs. Moore said. "We'll need to make a sign-up sheet and posters for that as usual."

"I can handle that," added Mrs. Davis, who sat across from Clara. She was an older woman with fluffy white hair who always slipped Clara peppermints after these meetings, and as such, she was Clara's favorite of the charity ladies.

"Can I make molasses cookies for the dessert?" She asked, stealing her mother's fountain pen and quickly writing 'meal sign-ups' at the top of her pad of paper, then listing various dishes down the left-hand side. She pushed it across the table to Mrs. Davis and daintily put the pen back in its place. "I like that job best."

Mrs. Moore shot Clara an annoyed glance. "Yes, if your mother agrees. We ought to let everyone have their say first."

"Of course, and thank you for making the sign-up sheet," said Mrs. Davis, adding Clara's name to the dessert line, and her own to pasta salad line. "Your penmanship has improved."

"I've been practicing."

Ms. Moore cleared her throat to bring them back to the task at hand. "Mrs. Lemay, would you like to continue going over the minutes?"

"ahem, yes. Clara, please don't interrupt."

"Sorry."

Mrs. Lemay opened her mouth as if to say something else before shaking her head slightly and turning back to her papers. "Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Moore also went to the city council meeting last week since Mayor Gilroy would be looking at funding for institutions such as our own. We had scheduled for this meeting a debriefing on that so we know how to operate moving forward."

"Yes, tell us how that went. I don't suppose you met the new head of that disreputable place in Manhattan."

Mrs. Moore nodded, "One Mr. Snyder has taken over as the warden of The Refuge. He's already familiar with the workings of the home, having worked as one of the enforcers before, and he lost no time in befriending the mayor."

"It seemed to me that he rather took after the unpleasant sort of character of his predecessor," Mrs. Miller added. "I don't believe that anything is going to change under his purview."

Clara shifted in her seat and looked curiously from woman to woman. She'd heard snippets in the past of their distaste for this place, but they'd never discussed it so bluntly before in her presence, and she wondered how they'd first learned of this place's infamy. She bit her lip, weighing her mother's unspoken but altogether too clear instruction to stay quiet with her burning curiosity before opting to simply raise her hand.

The conversation stopped. Mrs. Moore opened her mouth to start saying something, but Mrs. Davis cut her off before the rest could object to the interruption. "Yes Clara, what's the matter?"

"How do you know the Refuge is so bad? What do they do? Have you been there?"

"Questions, questions," Mrs. Moore muttered under her breath. Mrs. Davis ignored her.

"We've taken in a child or two in the past who make their way across the bridge after being released from the Refuge. They were starving upon arrival, and their experiences were…" she paused, attempting to find a way to explain what they'd heard to Clara. "The Refuge doesn't take as much care of their wards as we do, to put it simply. It's overcrowded and not particularly clean, and the children were happy to have a new set of clothes and a bed to themselves."

"That's horrible," Clara said, turning her pencil over in her hands. She couldn't imagine a child leaving their orphanage _starving_ – sometimes they had to add extra water to their soups to make what food they did have donated stretch far enough, but they always made sure everyone was fed.

"Yes. We don't approve of how they run their operations," Mrs. Miller added. "The city funds all the institutions in the same way – proportional to the number of children they're caring for, and that much hasn't changed at this last meeting either."

"They didn't approve of the new budget motion?" Mrs. Lemay asked.

"No. They discussed finances for only a minute to review the last quarter's spending, shot down any new suggestions, and approved the same movement they always do, before moving onto other topics. We couldn't get a word in edgewise," Mrs. Morris said. "No matter. We can't change what's happened so we ought to move forward as planned. We'll have to plan for another fundraiser for-"

"Can't we do something about the Refuge?!" Clara interrupted.

"Miss Lemay! We are gracious enough to allow you to participate in our meetings, the very least you can do is speak in turn," Mrs. Moore admonished.

"They can't just get away with that!" Clara argued, jabbing her pencil in her direction. "You _know_ it's bad, why don't you _say _something about it?"

Mrs. Lemay took the pencil and forced Clara's hand down. "Hush."

Mrs. Davis gave her a sad smile, "We've tried, dear. The mayor isn't exactly inclined to listen to a bunch of "hens" as we're unfortunately known. There isn't anything we can do."

Clara scowled. This was ridiculous. There had to be _something_ that could be done. Maybe they could start a petition? Or a picket line? Or they could lobby somebody above the mayor. How do you even do that? And who would be above the mayor? The governor? The president? They probably couldn't go all the way to Washington.

"Clara." She was called back to the present by her mother's call. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Oh. Yes, I understand," she lied. Another stern look. "I apologize for interrupting."

"Thank you," Ms. Moore said, before continuing about some other topic. Clara didn't bother to listen, and soon enough, the meeting was over and she and her mother were making their way back home for the evening. Clara refused to say anything, partially to not annoy her mother by speaking out of turn yet again, and partially to annoy her mother by not acknowledging her presence as she instead busied herself by trying to walk and read her new book at the same time, and partially because she was eating the mint that Mrs. Davis had given her on the way out the door (the one good thing to come out of the meeting in her opinion.) She'd only nearly walked off the sidewalk once before her mother broke the silence.

"You were rather upset by the talk of the Refuge today," she acknowledged, attempting to draw her normally-talkative daughter out into the conversation.

"Mmmmm Mmmmm." Clara bit her tongue and flipped a page. Hop over a loose cobblestone. A glance back down.

"Is this the first you've heard us discuss it? I thought you were familiar with the place from our prior conversations."

"nnnuuuuuhhhh." She turned to her mother and demonstrated that she was, in fact, biting her tongue.

"Oh, enough with that attitude already," Mrs. Lemay plucked the book out of Clara's hands.

"Hey!"

"Whatever is the matter with you today?"

"I'm _sorry_. It's not my fault Mrs. Moore is of the daft opinion that children ought to be invisible and mute."

"Clara!"

"Heaven knows how on earth she got put in charge of an _orphanage_, of all the careers." To Cara's surprise, her mother laughed at that comment. She huffed in annoyance. "I'm so glad you're taking me seriously now."

Mrs. Lemay sighed in resignation. "Mrs. Moore is our director for her organizational and administrative skills. She's an adept leader in terms of raising funds, keeping inventory for food and necessities, hosting events, and attending those sorts of city council meetings. Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Davis are in charge of actually taking care of the children and they do a good job of relaying relevant information to her, though I do agree with you, she could stand to interact with her wards a little more."

"hmghff."

"And you could stand to learn some manners. It is impolite to speak out of turn, in any sort of public situation. We don't exactly abide by that at home since it's only us, but you must learn to keep quiet during formal meetings, especially if you want to be involved in these sorts of operations in the future."

"Yes Mother," Clara sighed.

"Thank you."

"I just don't see why they gave up so easily on bringing attention to the Refuge," Clara argued. She made a motion as if she was jabbing with a pen again, before realizing she wasn't holding a pen and shoving her hands in her pockets.

"It doesn't seem like they tried very hard to make their point, especially with there being a new warden. That's the time to strike, to make some sort of new change, with all the other new changes he'll bring!" She continued, "Were they really not allowed to speak at the city council meeting? I want to go and have a strong word with them all myself. When can we next go to Manhattan? We ought to set up another personal meeting."

"Clara, they're fortunate they were allowed in the city council meetings. We're normally not allowed to even attend that sort of thing, and though they can sit in the room, we have no vote in the matter either. They don't want to risk their place at the table by doing anything too brash."

"Oh." Clara's face flushed with anger at the injustice and _nonsense_ of it all. "What good is a place at the table if you don't ever get to say anything?"

Mrs. Lemay gave a long sigh as Clara's point hit home and smoothly changed the topic. "The next time I have to go into the city, I'll take you past the Refuge so you can see the place for yourself. We won't be able to go inside, but if you'd like to stand on the sidewalk, you'll be allowed to do that, at least. I think that's a compromise we can all live with, hmmm?"

Clara groaned. It wasn't much but it would be better than sitting around, useless to do anything of use at home. "Deal."

* * *

**A/N: The plot thickens, and Clara has returned! Next week we'll see the Newsies again, and thank you as always for reading :)**


	16. The Return

_May 3__rd__, 1894_

Despite all his better judgment telling him to sit still and mind his own business, Niner paced in circles around the cramped bunk room. It was merely routine. He would wake up with the sun. No breakfast here - only a meager meal for dinner in the midafternoon - but then he would walk his route.

No bag full of papers weighed him down, but the sight certainly did enough of that on its own. Occasionally someone would gripe at him to stop it, but those orders did little to release his anxious energy and so he continued walking. Others expressed curiosity at his daily movement and struck up a conversation. Not that there was anything new to talk about from day to day, but these became his "regulars", taking the place of those customers outside to which he would normally sell his daily wares.

Finch, however, having got the idea into his head that it was entirely his fault Niner was stuck here, took it upon himself to keep the older boy company by talking his ear off. Though Niner thought the incessant chatter, and whistling, and humming, and singing would grow annoying, the boys soon became companions, and Niner learned why his younger friend had earned his name. Finch likewise, couldn't help but laugh at the irony of the situation once he learned the story behind Niner's own moniker. The two traded stories in an attempt to pass the time and played cat's cradle with the loop of string he kept in his pocket and Niner had to admit that he did enjoy the company.

But no amount of joking and company could make the next six days feel anything less like six years. Niner's restless energy only grew as the long _long_ hours passed and it didn't help that he nearly jumped out of his skin every time the heavy metal door slammed open for dinner because he knew it would only be a matter of time before the door slammed open and Snyder himself stood in the doorway.

"Sam Dobson and …" he squinted at his paper, searching for a proper name before settling for the nickname that was written, "Finch Fetrow! You're coming with me."

The two boys hesitated for a second and stared at each other. What could he want with them?

"Move!"

They scrambled to their feet and followed the man out the door. It slammed behind them as they made their way out into the brightly lit hallway and down into another office. Snyder opened it from a set of keys that jangled around his belt and let them in, then moved to sit behind the desk. He set the papers in front of him on the table and leaned forward. "So… is there anything you two troublemakers have to say for yourselves?"

Finch glanced up at Niner who shook his head slightly. "No." Snyder glared at him. "No sir," he amended.

"Good." He leaned back again and picked up the papers. "Dobson, your rap sheet certainly is impressive."

Niner bit back the urge to mouth off and settled for a simple smile and shrug gesture. (So? There was nothing either of them could do about it at this point.)

"How unfortunate that the juvie court only sentenced you to a week for the little stunt you pulled with that officer," he sneered. "But I don't make the rules, I just enforce them."

(How charitable). "Of course, sir," Niner said.

"And Fetrow," He continued, turning to Finch. "Stealing normally earns a much longer stay, and much harsher punishment, but as you're still below the age of sixteen, and this is your first _recorded _offense, you're off the hook after only a week too. I trust that you've learned your lesson but I'll be keeping a close eye on you. The both of you. If you try anything else, we'll be seeing each other again soon."

Though his words were all business, his tone made it sound like a threat. Niner tipped his hat at the Spider. "Well, thanks so much for your hospitality," he deadpanned, "Why don't we both scram and let you get on with your day?" He turned on his heel to make his way to the door but no sooner did he turn his back on Snyder did the guards grab them and roughly force them down the corridor. Soon enough, they were unceremoniously tossed out to the street.

Finch scrambled up to his feet and helped Niner to pick himself up out of the mud. He stood silent, unblinking, unmoving in the street, staring up at the building before them. Just like that, in a matter of minutes, they were free.

He turned to face the sun, now setting over the city, and laughed.

They were _free._

Finch made his way a few yards down the street, eager to get away from that place as fast as he could before realizing that Niner wasn't following him. He hesitated, ran back, and tugged at Niner's hand to get him to move. "Come on, we gotta get away from this place and find a place to stay before it gets dark, else we'll be sleeping on the street!"

Niner tore his eyes from the sunset and turned back to Finch, "Do you have a plan?"

Finch stopped pulling. "Um. No?"

"Why don't you come back to the lodging house with me? You can stay with the Newsies until you're able to come up with a better idea."

Finch smiled and nodded his agreement to the proposition. "Thanks, Niner."

"Don't mention it." He turned on his heel and started striding in the direction of the lodging house, forcing the younger boy to scramble to keep up with his eager pace. After a week of worry, he was finally so close to home, and he didn't want to lose _any _time in getting there.

* * *

Back at the lodging house, Jack grumbled as he rose from his bed to address yet another argument, this time between Sniper and Albert. The two of them were often at each other's necks for various small offenses and he'd given up on trying to break up all the bickering in the past week since it rarely amounted to anything serious. But now, their shouting rattled through the whole bunk room, and Blue swung a pillow down from the top bunk to smack Jack in the face and ask if he could possibly convince them to shut up.

Not that he _resented_ Blue for this treatment – he was the better of the two to deal with Sniper and Alberts fights as he was both of their friends – but the last thing he wanted to do with his evening was play referee. How did Niner ever put up with all this for the past three years he'd been in charge? He sighed. No matter, Niner wasn't here now and someone had to keep the peace.

Crutchie caught his sleeve as he walked past. "Do you want me to talk to them?" he asked. He'd often found himself mediating and diffusing hot heads before a fight could begin in the past week. Though usually left the breaking up of arguments to Jack's authority, it looked like the combined stress of being without their captain for the week, Sniper's pent up annoyance, and Albert's general irritability and pranking streak set this particular situation up to be a pain to calm down.

"Nah… you can go to sleep. I'll take care of these bummers," Jack answered. Crutchie shrugged and sat back, but he stayed up to watch as Jack crossed the distance to the two loudmouths and waited for a second to get a feeling for the conversation.

"I had my sheet _right here_ and now it ain't!"

"Doesn't mean I took it!"

Jack stepped in now and held up his hands for silence, cutting the argument short even for just a minute, long enough for him to inspect both beds and find that the sheet was, indeed, missing. He frowned. They banned stealing from each other long ago, and both boys knew better than that. "Alright, alright, what's the joke here?" he asked finally. Of all the stupid things to be bickering about…

Neither answered for a second as they glared at each other, then Sniper jabbed an accusatory finger at Albert, "Jack, remember that one time he short-sheeted my bed?"

"Yeah it didn't work 'cause you never _make_ your bed! Soon as you saw it looking _nice_ you knew something was up!" Albert countered. "I ain't playing any games."

"That's what I'm saying now! It looks nice cause there's no sheet on it making it look unmade, so now I know something is up!"

"Well _maybe_ if you made your bed every once and a while, your sheet wouldn't be missing!"

"So you admit it!"

"Hey!" Jack interrupted before the squabble could turn into an endless cycle of "did not, did too" and pushed both boys away from each other. "Time out! That's enough of that nonsense! Yellin' at each other isn't going to solve the fact that Sniper's sheet is missing and neither of you bummers knows where it is."

"But!"

"Shaddup. Albert, take the front half the room and look for the stupid thing. Sniper, you take the other half. Don't try and start anything with the others either. It's gotta be in here somewhere, how hard is it to lose an entire bedsheet?"

Albert opened his mouth to say something but Jack shushed him and pointed to the side of the room he was to search before crossing his arms and standing back to supervise the ordeal. Crutchie pushed himself to his feet, made his way over to his friend, and put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Why doesn't Albert sleepover on the top of my bunk tonight? It'll keep him away from Sniper, and I think we can find a spare blanket somewhere if the sheet doesn't turn up. Even an old towel would work, or he could wear his coat for the night. It's not the best solution but it would get them to go to bed."

Jack sighed as Sniper found his missing sheet shoved under the next bunk over, probably by some stray Newsie kicking it out of the way as they walked between the rows to their bed. "That's a good idea." He raised his voice. "Hey! Albert! You're sleeping over with Crutchie tonight. Move your stuff, quickly, and then both you go to sleep!"

The two did as they were told, and Jack turned back to Crutchie, his voice hushed again. "I just wish they'd _stop. _They wouldn't do this to Niner, would they?"

"Absolutely," Crutchie responded with a cheeky grin. "You just have the privilege of getting to deal with it this time." They started making their way over to their bunks. "I miss 'im too, but he's gotta be back soon. And he'd be proud of how you've taken over in the meantime!"

"I'd be proud of who?" came a familiar voice from the doorway. Jack whipped around at the sound, only to see their captain standing there – looking dirty and exhausted but real and safe and _home_.

"Niner!" Crutchie sprinted to him and fell into the older boy for a welcome hug, only barely keeping his balance in the rush of excitement at seeing their friend again. His hard expression melted into a face-spitting smile and he pulled Crutchie into the embrace as the others rushed to him too. Jack stood in shock for a second before joining the fray. Blue jumped off his top bunk to clap Niner on the back, and Jack gave him a friendly smack on the arm with his hat.

"You had us worried!"

"Another newsie from the Sun told us you were in the Refuge!"

"Are you ok?"

"How did the Spider catch ya?!"

"How'd ya get out?"

"Give the man some room to breathe!"

"Boy is it good to have you back again."

The questions and comments clamored and Niner had to nearly push the other boys off of him before he could answer any. Finally, someone noticed the small figure standing behind him in the doorway, looking just a little intimidated and a lot relieved at the sight of the friendly crowd that was a far cry from the bunkroom at the Refuge.

"Who's this?"

Niner pulled his companion forward into the room and pushed him in front of him to meet the others, putting his hands on the younger boy's shoulders. "Everyone! Meet Finch!"

* * *

**A/N: Hello! I apologize for missing last week and I hope you enjoy this chapter. There are two more in this arc, so even though things are looking up here, we're not quite done yet! Thank you for reading as always! :)**


	17. Realizations

After the excitement of welcoming their lost and new member to the lodging house, Niner finally succeeded in convincing everyone to go to sleep in anticipation for the long day of selling tomorrow. Jack and Crutchie reluctantly went to their beds despite their eagerness to talk with their returned friend and captain, but recognizing his exhaustion, to bed they went, leaving him the quiet to reflect and rest.

The next morning, Crutchie noticed a distinct shift in the mood of the lodging house. Despite Niner's physical escape from the Refuge, he wasn't mentally all-home. Their normally calm and unshaken captain jumped at every sudden crash or shout. The first time he really spoke all morning, he shoved his portion of breakfast into Crutchie's hands instead, asking if everyone had enough, and thanking the Sisters before he relapsed back into sullen silence.

The week of his absence changed Jack too. He automatically moved to action when the situation called for a leader, and beat Niner to the punch every time. The boys listened to him too, even though he turned to their captain for direction, they could all recognize his initiative in taking charge and his new position as an authority as well as a peer. And to a lesser extent, they did the same to Crutchie. Though only the slightest of shifts, he couldn't help but feel responsible for making sure he talked to anyone who might need a sympathetic ear and make sure they were alright. Now, instead of Niner helping him, it was his turn to return the favor of friendship. By the time they'd reached the circulation gates, Jack noticed the shift too and crossed the floor to stand in the back of the line next to Crutchie. He watched the proceedings silently wearing a dark scowl and crossing his arms over his chest.

"It sure is nice to have Niner back," Crutchie ventured in an attempt to make some easy conversation. Jack didn't move or answer, so he took that as a sign to keep talking. "He didn't say if he wanted to sell with someone today or if he'd sell alone but I hope we can spend some time with him over lunch. He'll be so happy to know how well you handled it all."

"Mmmmhmm." He made a noncommittal shrug. "Blue did the most of it."

"You helped a lot. What do you think of Finch? He's probably going to be selling with Niner today to learn the ropes, but I think he's going to be a good one. He's chatty enough to do the convincing."

Finch had indeed spent most of the morning introducing himself to the other Newsies and finding a place for himself among Sniper, Albert, and Race after demonstrating his skill at whistling any tune they requested. He stood aside now, questioning them about how best to sell his day's wares and laughing in wide eyed surprise at some of the more outlandish suggestions.

"He's alright I guess," Jack's voice dropped to just above a whisper as he abruptly changed the subject. "Crutchie, do you think something's wrong with Niner? He ain't right."

He nodded, taken aback slightly by Jack's suddenness of broaching the topic but more than happy to talk it out. "I think he's tired but getting back to normal will help." He turned a pointed glance at Jack, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but I don't think he is. Finch seems alright, in good spirits, I mean. But Niner? He's back, but he ain't doing very much of his job."

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Crutchie offered.

Jack looked up with a smile. "Would you?"

"Sure thing," Crutchie assured, "Don't worry Jack, he'll be fine. Good as new!"

_May 4__th__, 1893_

That evening, Jack climbed the fire escape onto the roof ahead of Crutchie. He'd taken to sleeping up there when the weather was warm and nice, claiming he couldn't stand to stay inside when there was fresh air to be had. Crutchie often joined him (and he'd gotten much better at navigating the tricky step he was proud to say), but tonight he hung back, waiting for Niner to return from his day's rounds. He had sold with Finch and was slightly slowed by the new Newsie but they had finally unloaded all of their papes for a successful first day. Finch, at least, returned in high spirits and the contrast of the chatterbox with the reticent older Newsie was all the more apparent. Crutchie intercepted Niner as he made his way into the bunkroom and tugged on his sleeve.

"Hey! Hey, Niner. Can you come up to the roof for a minute with Jack and me?"

"Yeah, sure," Niner answered absentmindedly as he arranged his bag and hat on his bed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'. We just wanted to catch up since we didn't have a chance to talk last night. He missed ya," Crutchie paused and fixed him with a stubborn smile that let the older newsie know he wouldn't be dropping the issue anytime soon. "We all did."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming." Niner paused long enough to return Crutchie's smile and ruffle his hair before turning back to his task of getting everyone calmed down and ready to go to bed, even if they wouldn't all be sleeping for a while. Crutchie moved across the room to the fire escape and made his way up to the roof. Jack looked up from his sketching as he heard the clatter of the wooden crutch on the roof as Crutchie tossed it up, then watched as his friend pulled himself up after it. He picked up the mobility aid and handed it back to Crutchie before resuming his sketching.

"Is he coming?"

Crutchie crossed the roof to their bedrolls and took his seat next to Jack, pulling his bad leg into a comfortable position and leaning back against the ledge as he set his crutch down next to him. "Yeah he's on his way. I think he's feeling a little better."

"I hope you're right."

"Me too." Crutchie pulled his bag around him and set it in his lap. He rooted through it until he found the remains of his lunch – half of a pastrami and cheese sandwich and an apple – and held it out to Jack. "Want some?"

He shook his head. Crutchie shrugged, took a bite of the apple, and glanced over his friend's shoulder at the assortment of scribbles on the page. He knew it didn't look like much now, but it would be some lovely rendering in a matter of minutes, and Jack was always improving in some area or another. A rough scattering of guidelines gradually transformed into convincing craggy cliffs and mountains and Crutchie realized he was looking at a recreation of the Rocky Mountain postcard they'd seen in a storefront on Lafayette Street earlier that day – Jack must have memorized the scene, and now he was adding details to the landscape. Crutchie opened his mouth to voice his approval but was interrupted by Niner clambering onto the roof. Jack put his paper away, balanced his pencil behind his ear, and gestured for Niner to come sit next to them, but he wandered to the edge instead to look out over the city.

"It's been years since I've been up here," The older Newsie mused. "I forgot how pretty the city is from all the way up high. I see now why you like to hide out up here."

(those poor kids don't got sights like this in the Refuge.)

"It ain't _hiding_," Jack said indignantly, "We's escapin'."

"Escaping your troubles?" Niner asked, his voice barely a whisper. He tore his eyes from the skyline and settled himself beside Jack, stomach growling. Crutchie nodded and tried to hand the rest of the sandwich at Niner. He waved his hand to indicate that he didn't want to take the proffered gift, but Crutchie shoved it into his hands anyhow. Niner gave him a thankful smile and started pulling off the wrapper. "Thank you for running things while I was gone, Jack. Blue told me you all but took over, and you did a great job of corralling them all this morning."

"Don't mention it," Jack sighed, and abandoning subtlety altogether, fixed a pointed and probing look on Niner. "Are you ok? You seemed all out of sorts."

"mmm fine," Niner answered through a mouthful of sandwich. He paused, swallowed. "Just thinkin' that's all."

"Bout what?" Crutchie asked.

"You were uptight about something or other."

"What is this, an interrogation?" Niner objected. He glanced from Jack's intent stare to Crutchie's curious look as he crunched on his own meager dinner, and conceded. "I was glad to be back – it's just a little overwhelming to finally come home after being away for a while. I was worried bout all you, wanted to make sure you were staying fed, and safe, and warm, that's all. I'm sorry if all my worrying made you think you didn't do a good job; I'm proud of both of you for how well you handled it all." He gave them an apologetic smile.

"You don't got to apologize. We were worried about _you_," Crutchie explained with a soft smile, "I ain't never run into the Spider, but I know The Refuge is an awful place and I'm sure it wasn't an easy week for you. We got the better part of it, even though we did miss you loads."

A fleeting expression of both gratitude and darkness passed over Niners face and he looked down to pick apart the next bite of the sandwich. "It wasn't."

Jack opened his mouth to ask another question but Andrew held up a finger to shush him. "Do you wanna talk about it?" He offered. "If not, we understand. We've got plenty of other things to talk about instead."

Niner shrugged as he finished his meal, then laid back with his arms under his head so that he could look up at the stars slowly coming out as night fell. (He really ought to come up here more often…) They sat in solidarity silence for a moment before he worked up the will to speak again. "I'm glad I'm back, but now I'm worrying about all the kids that are still trapped in that God-forsaken place. Finch – he's doing ok now, but when I first met him and stepped in, he was stealing apples cause he was so starving. So were a bunch of the others who'd been there for weeks. There weren't enough blankets or beds for everyone."

He gave a long sigh. "I knew I'd be alright, but some of the others? It's killing me to know there's nothing I can do to help any of them."

At this news, Jack's face darkened and he turned to look out over the city, a plan slowly forming.

"You helped Finch. Didn't you see how excited he was this morning at the circulation floor? You turned him around. That's something," Crutchie pointed out.

"He's just one though. I can't possibly help all of them. It doesn't matter what one kid can do, not up against… _them._" He waved a scornful hand in the direction of the Refuge. "Won't make any difference."

Crutchie poked Niner in the leg to get his attention, and he sat up on his elbows to look at the younger boy. "You helped _Finch_. What you did mattered to _him_. And that's better than nothing. He's one more that Spider didn't get in the end."

Niner half-smiled at the thought, and Crutchie pressed on, "You did what you could, Niner. Just like you and Jack helped me. You've made a difference in the lodging house, where you belong, and if everyone did what they could, just where they're at? It might change the world."

"Yeah, we're all gonna change the world," Jack added. Crutchie couldn't help but notice the edge of anger to his words. "Just you wait."

_May 5__th__, 1893_

Crutchie hid behind the wall, peeking around it to watch Jack as he sneaked up to the back door of the bakery. "You're _crazy_, this will never work!" He hissed. "Get back here before you get yourself caught!"

"Shhhhhh! I've got this," Jack assured. His foolproof plan, made last night during Niner's conversation on the rooftop, was simple in design. Sneak into the bakery, make off with a few loaves of bread, drop them off at the window of the Refuge, and make off before anyone knew the wiser. His tagalong however, disapproved.

"Niner is going to absolutely lose his mind if you get hauled off to the Refuge right after he told you how bad it was," Crutchie argued.

"'How bad the Refuge was' is _why_ I'm doin' all this! Didn't you listen to my whole shpeal? Besides, I ain't gonna get caught!

"Famous last words."

Jack shot him an annoyed glance and crept closer. "I ain't gonna get caught unless you keep distracting me."

"Even if you don't get caught, Niner's gonna lose his mind when he finds out you tried and he's the one who _almost_ got you caught by telling you all that. Come on, we don't wanna miss the lunch crowd, just let it drop already."

Jack sighed and turned back to Crutchie. "What was all that you were sayin' last night about how if everyone did what they could, that we could change the world?" Crutchie opened his mouth to object but Jack plowed ahead before he could say anything. "I dunno if that's all just talk to you, but I can't just sit on the knowledge that kids might be starving in there and just sit around and do nothing."

Crutchie frowned. "It wasn't just talk. I meant every word of it. I just don't want you to get hurt too. Ain't there something _else_ you could do to help instead?"

Jack gave his friend a confident smile and turned on his heel. "Don't worry. I'll be fast, and I'll be careful."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

In retrospect, perhaps his foolproof plan had been pretty foolish after all. He should have listened to Crutchie and heeded his pleas to err on the side of caution. But now, as he sat looking out the small, smeared windows of the bunk room of the Refuge, there was nothing he could do to change the past, and there was nothing he could to change his current state, which was that he was hungry, and impatient, and angry that all his troubles had gone for naught. He would escape.

It was only a matter of time.

In retrospect, he should have tried harder to stop Jack. He should have _forced _him to stop. But now, as he sat alone on the roof of the Lodging house, there was nothing he could do to change the past. He rubbed at the bruises on his leg from where he'd fallen when chasing after the guard as he dragged Jack away. There was nothing he could do to help now, except for wait for his friend to be released and keep Niner from freaking out in the meantime.

It was only a matter of time.

**A/N: ahhh I'm sorry I'm returning to posting on a sad chapter, but the next one is exciting so I hope you'll enjoy this one for what it is, and enjoy reading the payoff of this arc next week! Jack is… impulsively well intentioned to say the least :P **

**Thanks for reading!**


	18. The Great Escape

_May 13__th__, 1894_

Clara's chance to visit the Refuge came two weeks later when her mother needed to venture into Manhattan for some fabric shopping. They took a carriage across the bridge to the garment district, then stopped for lunch along the way back in one of the many small local parks before starting the walk back towards home, past the infamous "orphanage". Clara paused on the sidewalk to take in the sight of the old foreboding building. Its façade was ramshackle at best, gloomy at worst, and a wrought iron picket fence bordered the short distance from the road to the front door. Who could imagine what the conditions inside were really like? Tales from Bly's _Fourteen Days in a Madhouse _flashed through her mind. Her blood boiled to think that it might be anything like that and that she could do nothing to change it.

Mrs. Lemay tapped on her daughter's shoulder to get her attention and bent to whisper in her ear, "Don't point or make yourself obvious. Do you see the ill-tempered man with the bowler standing on the front stoop?"

"Yes," Clara whispered back, "Is that Mr. Snyder?"

Mrs. Lemay nodded but said no more as a carriage pulled up on the road beside them. It had scarcely stopped before the door swung open and out stepped a tall redheaded man with a mustache and a pair of round glasses perched on his nose. He tipped his hat to the two ladies and quickly crossed the distance to the gate with a few confident and purposeful strides. He gave it a loud clanging knock that sent the doors rattling and Snyder hurried to unlock it. Clara strained to hear their conversation.

"Good afternoon! You must be Mr. Snyder, head of this establishment they call the Refuge if I'm not mistaken?" The redheaded man asked. He vigorously shook Snyder's hand and continued blustering along before the other man could even answer his question. "My name is Theodore Roosevelt. I'm the New York City Police Commissioner and I have an appointment with you to go over…."

The City Police Commissioner?Clara stood a little taller when she heard that. Here was someone who _could_ make a change! But why was he here? A million questions flew through her head about the operations of this now even-more-suspect than before institution. If only she could talk to him!

Mrs. Lemay started to pull Clara away and she reluctantly followed her mother for a few steps, craning her neck over her shoulder to continue eavesdropping on the conversation.

That was when she saw him. A young boy, only about her age, was half dangling out a broken window on the second story, staring intently at the distracted Mr. Snyder. He disappeared for a second back into the room, then returned, holding a bundle of dingy grey cloth. He tossed it out the window, and Clara realized that they were bedsheets, tied together at the ends and affixed to the frame of a bunk bed.

He was trying to escape.

And, Snyder would catch him if he wasn't distracted.

Clara took one last look at the boy, feet dangling off the ledge. He held a finger to his mouth, realizing he'd been noticed. _Shhhhhh. _Clara gave him a quick wave and mouthed a short instruction. "Go."

She broke away from her mother to run to the two bickering men, hoping he would understand what she was trying to do. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" She called, "Mr. Roosevelt? Sir!"

They looked up at her curiously. Surely, she made an odd sight: a child with a mother running along and begging for an audience to talk about the orphanage; however, it was the attention she needed – attention drawn away from the escaping boy. "I'd like to talk to you about the orphanage I work at!" She called cheerily.

"Mr. Snyder is this one of your wards?" Roosevelt asked Snyder, and Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the annoying habit adults had of talking over her head as if she weren't standing right there.

"No, Sir, my mother is right there," Clara corrected, pointing in the direction of Mrs. Lemay who was now hurrying to catch up with her daughter. "We just came to Manhattan for the day. We work at Graham Windham Orphanage in Brooklyn, but we've never had the Police Commissioner come to talk about the children there. I wanted to ask-"

"Clara!" Her mother's voice interrupted Clara as she caught up to her. "I'm sorry sirs, she should know better than to speak out of turn."

Clara shook her mother off and pressed on, "Is this supposed to be a jail? These children might be my classmates, not criminals!"

The reactions of both men could have been amusing if Clara weren't so focused on making a scene. Mr. Snyder's face flushed with anger and he stammered out a request to Mrs. Lemay to "please get your daughter under control." Roosevelt, on the other hand, was _laughing_. Clara took a step back in confusion, debating whether it was a condescending or amused laugh. It was hardly the reaction she expected, and if she had time, she might even be angry about it, but for now, a reaction, _any _reaction, was all she needed. Her mother pulled gently at her arm to take her away but she stood stock still, staring at the men – through the men – waiting.

The boy reached the end of his rope jumped the last six feet to the ground and took off like a shot. He ran to the carriage and clambered onto the back rack where he disappeared. He was safe. But her work here was not done. She still needed answers.

"So?"

Finally, Roosevelt responded, bending down slightly to talk down at her. "I appreciate your curiosity! We're on a tight schedule and my other meetings of the day will be annoyed if I don't make them."

Clara's face fell partially in disappointment and partially in annoyance. Roosevelt fished in his pockets and pulled out a small business card, then held it out to her as if he was bestowing upon her some great boon. "If you're ever in the neighborhood again, I'd be happy to talk with you again, little lady," he said. He turned to his carriage man and instructed him to come back in an hour, before turning abruptly on his heel and making his way for the front door of the Refuge. The vehicle clattered off down the cobblestone street, carrying its hidden cargo with it and Clara couldn't resist a self-satisfied smile.

"Now," Snyder huffed, all but pushing them off the sidewalk as he shut and locked the gate behind them, "If you'll excuse us." He led Roosevelt into the building and slammed the door shut, leaving Clara and her mother standing alone in the street.

Clara fiddled with the card for a minute before slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. She felt her mother's steely glare on the back of her neck and looked up with a winning smile. "I think that went well!" she said cheerfully.

Her mother's glare melted away as she gave her an amused and long-suffering sigh. "Alright, Clara. Let's go home."

Niner, who stood hid several yards away behind a large food cart, was silently losing his mind. He'd taken to loitering around the Refuge in the past days despite all his better judgment telling him to avoid the place like the plague, but he couldn't help but wander there between rounds, anxious over losing Jack and powerless to do anything to rescue him. He would never forget the way Crutchie stumbled across the square to him through the midday crowd – rushing to pull his bad leg as fast as his arms and his crutch could carry him, frantic and halfway to tears to break the news. He'd done his best to console the younger Newsie, all the while mentally cursing Jack's stupid altruism and his carelessness for his part in instigating the stunt. And so, he stood there, expecting nothing, but unable to force himself to move on either.

He witnessed the proceedings across the street when the carriage pulled up, when the girl had started yelling, and when Jack had tumbled from the second story window on a rope of sheets. Did she know what she was doing? Would she be alright? She must know what a risk she took by interfering with Snyder's plans, by accusing him of his crimes before an authority, and that took guts, even with a mother hovering just behind her. He couldn't help, or speak with her, or do much of _anything _for fear of exposing himself or Jack, now safely hidden away, but it took every ounce of his willpower to stay safe and hidden and quiet instead of rushing into the fray.

When the argument abruptly ended, he found himself sprinting after the carriage in a wild attempt to keep up with it through the crowded New York streets. He finally caught up to it at the next street corner, just in time to see Jack dropping off the bottom carriage where he clung to roll away from the wheels on the street before it could begin to move again.

Jack laid for a moment next to the curb – filthy, exhausted, and caught up in the exhilaration of the moment. _He was free_.

He turned his eyes to the sky, tears of overwhelming relief welling up at finally being able to live under it again. A shadow blocked the sky, and when Jack looked over his shoulder, there was Niner, all but tackling him in a hug before helping him to his feet and dragging him back home to the Lodging house, all the while berating him for doing such a stupid thing in the first place and shouting exuberantly about his great prison break. Jack could only laugh. Supported by his older friend, they made their way back downtown together.

Once back to the Lodging house, Jack got washed up and Niner forced him to lay down and get some rest before reluctantly heading back out to unload the rest of his morning papers. The nap was nice, Jack had to admit, but despite Niner's protests that he needed time to recover, Jack couldn't stand to sit in the empty bunkroom of the Lodging house any longer (it was too much like the… no he would _not _going to think about that) and by noon he was dressed and making his way back to Newspaper Row and the distribution center.

He figured Niner would have told the others that he was back, but when he arrived, Niner hadn't returned from his route and the others all froze as if they'd seen a ghost. All except Crutchie. As soon as he saw the familiar figure of his lost friend across the floor, he all but threw himself off the stack of papers at his friend. For a split second, all Jack's worries melted away as he was caught up in the joy of the moment. The others jumped to action a second later and soon he was swarmed by his friends, his brothers, welcoming him home and vying for the story of his escape.

Jack gasped for breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob and a shout of excitement as relief crashed over him in waves. He could hardly believe his escape plan had worked. His second escape plan. He'd put up such a fight when they first tried to drag him away that they'd skipped throwing him into the main big bunkroom and threw him straight into solitary - he shuddered and pushed the memory away. It took several days to work down his anxiety to the point of boredom and another day for his restless energy to finally remember an old story and formulate a plan. Then it was a matter of waiting for the right opportunity, and he couldn't believe it had actually _worked. _

But here he was, surrounded by the other Newsies: Crutchie's wide smile and Finch's exuberant yelling and Race's friendly rough-housing, pulling him back to the present moment and reminding him that he was safe and free and found by his family after being lost for so long. Jack smiled. Someone handed him a satchel as they lined up for their papers, and as he felt the familiar texture of the burlap bag and the heavy load of the afternoon papes, he felt the burden of the last week lift from his shoulders slightly.

By that afternoon, the word that someone had escaped from the Refuge had started to make its way around the city through the network of street kids spreading the story by word of mouth. Though the Newsies of the various papers and neighborhoods normally existed in a friendly sort of rivalry, competing for turf and customers, they all ultimately looked out for each other and spread more news than just the daily headlines. Whether it was gossip, rumor, a warning, or an exaggeration, the neighborhood was always glad to have something new to talk about, and soon enough the story of Jack Kelly's daring jailbreak on the back of Roosevelt's carriage had propelled him to near-fame among the working kids of the city. But it didn't matter, not to him.

He was safe, and free and his friends

And that was enough for him.

**A/N: And here's the thrilling conclusion of this Refuge arc! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter – it was one of the inspirations for this story, where I had the idea of Clara being there for Jack's escape and built the rest of the plot around this. I'd like to give a special shoutout to DisneyFan10 for predicting this in advance! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks as always for reading! :)**


	19. When You Grow Up

_June 6__th__, 1985_

"Clara come on!"

Hannah's high voice rang across the field and Clara glanced over her shoulder as she carried a stack of dishes to the washhouse. "I'll be there in a minute!"

"Your food is getting cold and attracting flies. No one else is in the kitchen washing up. The dishes can wait for a minute while you get something to eat," Hannah insisted. She made her way over to Clara with a few determined strides and plucked the dirty dishes out of her hands before she could protest. "Even you have to rest sometimes."

"Yeah yeah," Clara groaned, but she took up her plate and followed Hannah to their spot among the grove of trees nonetheless. The first community charity dinner of the summer had gone of spectacularly, with more families and more food than ever before – feeding both the children of Graham Windham as well as the poor families in their neighborhood which now mingled and chatted as they picnicked in the sunny Sunday afternoon. Though the credit could hardly go wholly to her, Clara's hard work in preparation for the event had paid off and though she wanted to keep it up and make sure that it _finished_ successfully as well, she did appreciate Hannah's part in bringing her back to the reason she did this: to make a difference and to spend time with her friends.

She took a bite of her meal and looked over the field. A new herd of kids was playing where she did once – so much had changed in the last four years. "I'm gonna miss you," she said quietly.

"I'm not going far," Hannah assured her for the hundredth time that week. "Just across the bridge to Manhattan. I'll still see you on weekends, and you can come to visit whenever."

"I know," she grumbled. "But you've graduated. It's not going to be the same at school without you."

"You'll be fine, Clara."

"I'll be dreadfully _bored_, you mean."

"You? Bored?" Hannah teased. "The sky would fall first."

Clara rolled her eyes.

"You'll have so much work at the orphanage and with middle school work to do that you won't have time to be bored," Hannah insisted, "And failing that, your classmates get up to more than enough antics to keep you occupied, and you have your running rivalry with Lucas to uphold.

Clara had to laugh at that. The recent schoolyard drama of who had a crush on who consumed all the talk of the year, besides the usual griping about homework and the teachers, and she - being one of the few unaffected parties – was privy to all the gossip, often whether she wanted to or not. Lucas on the other hand, made it the mission of his life to constantly one-up her, in grades, in extra-curricular, in _everything_, it seemed, and she was eager to return the favor.

"And failing _that_," Hannah insisted, "If you do find yourself bored for more than thirty seconds, I'm sure you'll make yourself something new to do. I'll come to visit and you'll have started on an embroidering a tapestry, or learning Irish, or…"

"Ok, ok! I won't be bored," Clara conceded, "but it still won't be the same without you. Aren't you nervous about your new job?"

Hannah shrugged and settled back against the tree. "Of course, I'm nervous. The newspaper is a busy, competitive place after all, but I think as a clerk? I'll manage. It's not an ideal job but I'm happy to have a stable financial position now that I've finished my education." She gave Clara a conspiratorial grin. "On the other hand, you have to deal with the headmaster for another… five years? While I go free."

Clara laughed, "Oh I think I'll manage. He's always liked me better."

"Ha. In your dreams."

Cara stuck her tongue out at Hannah. "You'll be glad the adults stop pestering you about 'What do you want to do when you grow up?', now that you're on your way. You were so sick of that question." Hannah only made an annoyed face in response. "I've only started to get that interrogation."

"Enjoy," Hannah deadpanned. "What do you tell them?"

Clara shrugged. "I don't want to be a teacher, or a nurse, which seems to be my other two options. I suppose I'll probably be a secretary, like you, but I want more than that. I want to make a difference."

"I can see you as headmaster of the Graham Windham one day if you keep up your involvement," Hannah suggested, "You could go to Barnard or one of the other women's colleges."

Clara thought about the polite hostility that seemed to be a constant factor between her and some of the cliquish charity ladies and frowned. "Maybe," she lied. As much as she would enjoy running things on a day to day basis, the idea of doing the administrative work, talking to the mayor, and putting up with the snide comments that she knew Mrs. Moore always had to combat sounded exhausting. No, she had something else in mind.

"They wouldn't like my answer if I told them I wanted to go into law or politics, would they?"

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "Depends on who you ask."

"It's doable," Clara insisted, "There are women who have been admitted to the bar. We're making our way slowly. I'll just have to be the next."

Hannah resisted the urge to sigh, both proud of her younger friend's determination and unwilling to dash that hope, but also recognizing the sort of roadblocks and frustration that would be set up for her along the way. She smiled instead, "You know if you wanted to get into politics and law, the first thing to do is get references."

"How am I supposed to do that? I suppose Mrs. Davis would be a good one."

"Be a secretary, but for the mayor," Hannah suggested helpfully, "If you take college classes at night and work to put your way through the program during the day, you'll have a degree, experience, and a good reference in no time."

Clara grinned. "You're a genius Hannah, that's a _brilliant _plan."

"Well, you know it'll take a lot of work to get there. You'll have to keep your grades high and make up an impressive resume to be accepted to college in the first place," Hannah warned.

Clara scrambled to her feet with her now-empty plate. "Ha ha. Since when have you ever known me to be scared of a little work?" she boasted. "Besides, that's only two things. And speaking of work, I've got to get back to the kitchens now."

Hannah rolled her eyes and laughed, pulling herself to her feet and following her younger friend. "You never stop, do you?"

"Never."

* * *

Hannah did her very best not to gawk as she was hurried through one of the many floors of offices within the recently built Pulitzer Building. Desks lined up one upon another was filled with reporters tapping away their typewriters and swapping stories. People bustled through the rows to drop off and pick up and drop off reports and articles. Soon enough she would be one of them, but first… to meet the man behind it all.

Her guide led her and a few of the other recruits to a large office with a cloudy glass door bearing the famous Pulitzer name and knocked. A bored voice from inside beckoned them in, and they were instructed to line up before him like peasants seeking an audience with their monarch.

Whether he would be a just and righteous king or a despotic tyrant remained to be seen.

"Mr. Pulitzer, these are the new recruits, right on time for their scheduled briefing to receive their assignments," the guide said quickly, handing over a clipboard of their names and information. Pulitzer inspected it, then looked each new employee up and down as if assessing some unknown trait. An intimidation game, she was sure. Hannah met his gaze with a steely smile of her own. He made a barely perceptible nod before moving on and returning to his place behind his desk.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the _World,_" he addressed them, "I trust you're familiar with the scope of this newspaper operation, and coming through here you've only seen a small part of the work that it takes to keep our circulation running – to keep it growing. Mr. Hartman assures me you are all hardworking and ambitious young people ready and eager to take on the responsibility alongside your older peers, and I trust you will live up to that expectation."

He gave them a wolfish grin, "You should know I suffer no fools, but I am also not an unreasonable man. Know your place, do your work, and you _will_ succeed."

It sounded more like an order than any sort of encouragement, and with that last admonition, he finished his speech and turned rather to giving out their assignments. Hannah took hers without complaint and followed the guide back out of the offices to begin her day. First, she was shown her desk space where she was allowed to store her things for the day but she barely stayed there for long. Within minutes she was swept off on a tour of the building which left her head spinning as she tried to commit to memory which floor stored what functions of the business. Then, she was left on her own to tackle her first days of assignments. And so, began a morning of rushing around the building and retracing her steps several times as she attempted to mark the items off of her list, though it seemed like every time she completed one, three more were added.

She realized eventually that it would be easier to batch the assignments by floor, rather than the chronological order in which she found them and figured that what delay she might cause in rearranging them might be made up in the benefit of marking off several at once. Equipped with this new strategy, she steeled herself to start again on her list (two more tasks having been added in the time she rewrote it) and went to work. It proved to work much more efficiently, and between her new quicker pace and the eventual slowing of added tasks as the workday wound to an end, she was finally able to get through the entire list. Hannah couldn't find any of the other recruits to commiserate with as she headed back to her desk at the end of the night to collect her things – she expected that they might have gone home already. This office floor looked rather empty compared to its state that morning and she allowed herself a moment to just rest now that there was no fear of being caught doing such a treasonous thing as sitting.

Hannah flopped down into her chair, but her attempts at a quiet moment were interrupted by a quiet cry from below her desk. She frowned and looked down at what she had accidentally kicked. A small girl with curly brown hair and big brown eyes sat hunched up on the floor, holding a copy of the New York _Sun_.

"What are-"

"Shhhhhh!"

Hannah rolled her eyes at the unwanted interruption. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Children don't belong in the office!"

"Of course! That's why I'm hiding," the girl whispered. "Pretend I'm not here."

"Shan't," Hannah whispered, nonetheless, she made a show of organizing things on her desk so no one would be suspicious of her newfound charge. "What's your name? Shouldn't you be in school? How did you even get in here?"

"I'm Katherine, and I've already finished with my tutors for the day," she answered, "My father lets me in but I'm not supposed to pester him."

Tutors? Her _father_? Hannah looked up as the elevator door at the other end of the room clattered open, and none other than Pulitzer himself entered, flanked by a few aides giving him the daily sales reports. She suddenly connected the lead of the newspaper itself with the stowaway and nodded in understanding as she tried to figure out what she would do with Katherine. She could lose her job if she made the wrong step and she had no way of knowing what the _right _step might be, and so she resolved to get away from the situation as soon as possible. She pushed out from the chair and finished gathering her things with a subtle wink to Katherine, and then attempted to exit as quietly as possible so as not to disturb or draw the attention of Pulitzer.

"Excuse me, Marah?"

Hannah stopped and looked around the room. There were no other women around, and Pulitzer was looking at her, which eliminated the possibility that he was talking to someone else. She turned around with a professional smile to answer him, "Hannah. Can I help you, sir?"

"You're one of the new recruits, aren't you?"

"Yes sir."

"What did you think of your first day?" He asked. It was an innocuous enough question, but to Hannah, it sounded probing, as if he was testing her and she needed to supply the right answer to land in his good graces.

"You have an impressive operation running here," She answered cautiously, though her tone was cheerful, "I was happy to finish all my tasks for the day, but I'm still learning my way around, so I'm sure I'll be faster within the week."

He raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly in satisfaction. "Well done, have a good night," he said shortly, before moving on with his aides. Hannah let out a small sigh of relief as she seemed to have passed his test, and moved to the elevator. She hesitated for a second to watch as Pulitzer made his way past her desk. Katherine scrambled up to surprise her father – the traitorous other newspaper hidden safely in her pocket. Hannah smiled, and while they were sufficiently distracted, she made her exit.

This would be an interesting job indeed.

* * *

**A/N: Hannah gets her chance in the spotlight! I really enjoyed watching her in the musical and she's such an underrated character, so I'm having fun developing a backstory for her alongside Clara's story. I don't know if any graduates are reading this with the school year ending recently, but if you are, I wish you luck with whatever it is you're doing! Thanks for reading! :)**


	20. Captain Jack, An Enlightening Lunch

_July 6__th__, 1897_

Niner returned to the lodging house early with many mixed feelings. He'd unloaded the last of his light load of papers and walked past the circulation floor to jeers from Wiesel that it was "about time he got out from underfoot." He made his way back to the bunkroom before the rest of the boys to pack up his things, though these weren't many, leaving just his bedspread alone for the night. He would be leaving first thing in the morning and he needed to be ready.

He recalled how much things had changed since he first came to the lodging house: all the old friends that he'd grown up with were long gone. The last of those was Blue, and he left the Newsies to find work as a construction laborer when he was eighteen. Now the lodging house belonged to a new generation of young workers. Niner was the last holdout of the previous crew: either unwilling to leave his boys or unable to find other work for the last several years, he had stayed on for longer than usual. He was now going on twenty-one, which easily made him the oldest Newsie in the city. Perhaps he could have blamed it on the odd situation the Manhattan house found themselves in with the ages of their senior members. Even though Blue, Skip, and the others were older than he, they all left before Niner did, and leadership couldn't be handed down until the next-oldest was ready. But now?

Niner had to admit to himself that he was tired. He loved the Newsies. _The World_ had been his whole world since he was seven, protecting the others his only priority since he was sixteen, and as much as he appreciated his daily routines, it had finally worn out and gotten old. He had gotten old, and he was ready to move onto something bigger than just hauling papes around the city day after long day and managing the childish interactions of the others. Now, that responsibility would be passed onto Jack. He'd just entered the bedroom and crossed over to meet Niner by the table in the corner of the room where they often conducted business. They exchanged a long look before Niner finally smiled and pulled the younger boy into a hug goodbye.

It was an inevitability; one both saw coming for some time in advance. Niner had begun reading the job postings in the papes in search of something he would be happy doing whenever he did move on, and eventually landed on a position as a mailman. He would exchange his bag of newspapers for a bag of letters, and walk a different route, and share an apartment with different friends, but he hoped it would strike a good balance between a change of scene and comfortable familiarity. Since their misadventure with Snyder and his ilk a few years back, Jack had taken a more active role in helping to run the lodging house and he protected his family with a single-minded protectiveness and devotion. He was ready and eager to take on that responsibility, even if he wasn't ready to lose the constancy of his older friend's presence.

And so, this was how they found themselves, standing patiently in the middle of the lodging house, crowded by the rest of the newsies as they trickled into the bunk room. Crutchie took up his place on Jack's right side and put his hand on his friend's shoulder in a silent show of strength and support. Race on his other side and fixed both with a wide smile, determined to make what might be a bittersweet moment a cause for celebration and hope.

Niner took a final headcount to make sure everyone had arrived before beginning the night's proceedings. There weren't any written rules to the lodging house, besides "don't burn it down" (which, appropriately enough, had been inscribed in one of the wooden windowsills with a magnifying glass several years ago) but an eclectic variety of traditions persisted nonetheless. These included the ceremony (if one could call it that) for handing down the leadership of the lodging house from one captain to another. No one knew who started the tradition, but as far as any of them were concerned, the Lower Manhattan Newsies had been doing this ever since there was a Manhattan. Race shouted for silence, and the energetic murmur of voices chattering about the day slowly died down to whispers as they looked on in expectation.

Niner pulled the last of the day's papes from his bag – one he'd deliberately not sold – and placed it on the table next to a small can of sky-blue paint and a paintbrush that Jack had volunteered for the occasion. He took the brush, dipped it into the paint, and reading aloud the message, wrote in small even lettering just above the date, "Remember Me. This paper is yours." He handed the brush to Jack and Crutchie handed his friend a paper of his own. Jack inked in all capitals and read, "Remember us. This paper was yours."

Jack tucked the paintbrush behind his ear and looked up to see Niner take off his bag now. Newsies rarely marked their bags in any way – they were all standard-issue anyhow, and most kids came to the profession hoping to turn it in again soon as they moved on to better prospects. Not so of the captain's bag, which had been mended and patched dozens of times and scribbled all over with the names of the Newsie leaders of the past. The ink started on the strap and spread out from there. Niner added his name to the list when he'd taken up the satchel and the responsibility of protecting his boys. Now, Jack jotted his name beside his older friend's and put on the bag. It felt comfortable and worn-in, and he ran his hand along the strap as he read the names.

Paint now dry, they rolled up the papers for safekeeping and exchanged the newly made memorials of the day. Niner tucked his memory into the satchel that held the rest of his things, packed up and ready to move out. Jack placed his paper inside his new bag. Finally, they shook hands, before going in for another hug, and then Niner lifted Jack's hand above his head and cheered in a voice just on the edge of cracking, "NEWSIES OF MANHATTAN! CAPTAIN JACK!"

A chorus of exuberant shouting and clapping erupted from the assembled crowd as Crutchie and Race, then the others all clambered round to congratulate them both: Niner for his new job and Jack for his new position. Race stood on a chair to lead a cheer. A few boys had brought snacks with their extra savings from the past week for the night's revelry, and soon they were passing around popcorn and apples. Others brought out improvised instruments and led a song and dance of celebration. It would be the most memorable party they'd ever seen grace the halls of the lodging-house, and a perfect way to end the night, and the boys dropped into sleep one by one as the night dragged on. At the end of it all only Niner and Jack remained awake, comfortable, and content, looking over the peace of their sleeping brothers and sharing some final memories before finally, Jack nodded off leaning against his older friend.

When Jack awoke the next morning, he was in his own bed, and Niner was gone. He pulled himself out of bed, shouldered his new bag, and taking a deep breath, began rousing the Newsies to carry the banner another day.

* * *

_July 8__th__, 1897_

Clara reached in her dress pocket for the hundredth time that day to feel the heavy paper of Hannah's letter from earlier that week. Even though she had the address memorized, she checked again before calling the carriage driver to let her off at the location she'd be meeting her for lunch – a local restaurant called Jacobi's. It clattered and slowed to a stop, and Clara handed the driver his payment quickly before climbing down and making her way to the door as she caught a glimpse of her tall red-headed friend. The older girl whirled around in time to see a teenager with blonde hair twisted into a high bun rushing towards her and caught Clara up in a hug of welcome.

"Hannah! How are you? It's been ages!"

"It's been barely a month," Hannah laughed, "It's a miracle your parents let you come to Manhattan on your own, but I sure am glad they did."

Clara pulled away after second and smiled at Hannah as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm sixteen, Hannah, I'm practically an adult." She looked around expectantly now, "You said in your letter you would be bringing a friend from work. Where are they?"

"Katherine's inside reserving our seats. Come on."

They turned and she led the way inside and to their table, where there sat a girl about Clara's age with curly brown hair and bangs. She wore a lacy blouse, smart red blouse, and a skirt that looked like it came straight out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She was looking over the menu and didn't see the others approaching at first. Clara fell a half-step behind Hannah as she tried to puzzle out the sort of person she was about to meet – why would a kid like this be working with Hannah? And she was clearly rich, why would she need to work as a secretary if she could afford clothes like _that_? Hannah's letter, unfortunately, had been rather short on details on whom she was bringing to their lunch date. At first, Clara had assumed she'd met a nice gentlemen friend and wanted to introduce her to him to earn the best friend seal of approval, or else it would be another lady who shared her rank. In any case, she'd replied enthusiastically to humor her friend, although she was a tad disappointed that she would have to share Hannah with someone new, especially when they didn't see each other very often anymore. She was determined to make the best of it, for Hannah's sake, but now with her assumptions clearly proven wrong, she wasn't sure just what to make of this girl.

Hannah broke the hesitant silence as she slid into their booth and invited Clara to sit beside her. "Katherine! This is Clara Lemay, the one I told you about from my old school."

Clara wondered what Hannah had said about her as Katherine looked up with a winning smile and extended a hand to her. "It's nice to meet you, Clara!" Katherine said.

She took it and smiled politely. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Hannah told me you worked together."

Katherine exchanged a conspiratorial look with Hannah and tried not to laugh. "Yes, you could say that. We met at the office."

Clara raised an eyebrow at the roundabout answer but didn't have the chance to question any further as the waiter arrived took their orders. Soon enough their lunches emerged from the kitchens, and Clara took the opportunity to change the conversation, asking "Hannah, did you ever get that promotion you told me about?"

"I did!" She beamed, "I'm now the official secretary to Mr. Pulitzer himself. Only the Lord knows if that'll be any _better_ of a job, but at least I don't have to contend with Bill anymore!"

"Ugh, Bill. You _hated_ him." Clara groaned. She'd never met the infamous manager, but she'd commiserated with Hannah over the details of his recent offenses enough times to dislike him on her friend's behalf.

"I didn't… hate him," Hannah said. "I might have wished to sabotage his typewriter a few times though, and I shan't ever have to contend with his condescending remarks ever again."

Katherine lifted her glass of lemonade into the air, "A toast to that! It's wonderful news, Hannah! I'm so excited for you."

Clara clapped and raised her own glass of water as Hannah blushed. "Thank you, girls." She turned a pointed look at Katherine. "Now I just need to survive the first day of the new position without incurring Pulitzer's wrath. No offense."

"You're not scared of my father," Katherine said incredulously. "He's not that intimidating."

"Speak for yourself."

Her _father?_ Clara's eyes widened as she realized she was sitting beside an heiress, and all the distant dots connected. Somehow, Hannah had befriended the daughter of the richest and most powerful man in New York City and considered her important enough to invite along to their lunch. She pulled at a stray hair and took a bite of her meal as her mind raced, trying to decide on how best to proceed, and finally settled on trying to play it cool, until she had the chance to talk to Hannah alone.

Katherine noticed Clara's sudden quiet and turned to draw her into the conversation again. "So, what do you do, Clara?" Katherine asked innocently enough.

Clara looked up at the sudden call of her name, and tucked the piece of hair back behind her ear, "I'm still in high school," she said. It was an easy enough question, and she could easily recite her standard answer. "Currently, I'm doing summer coursework so that I can graduate high school early and go to Barnard women's college. I want to study law, and become mayor."

Katherine nearly dropped her fork. "That's ambitious."

"That's what everyone says."

"No, I'm sorry. Really, I admire that. I wish you the best of luck, I'm sure you'll be brilliant in school," Katherine assured her, internally cringing at her earlier blunder.

"I'm afraid it will take more luck than anything else," Clara answered ruefully.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hannah asked. "Whatever happened to the job you wanted with the current mayor?"

"I applied for a position as an intern this summer – to get experience in the field – but he passed over me for my classmate Lucas."

"Ugh, Lucas." Hannah groaned.

"He bragged about it during study hall last week, and I just left to go to the library."

Katherine looked from one to the other in confusion, "I take it he's not your favorite person in the world."

"Hardly. The truth of the matter is that the mayor has never hired a woman for an intern or aide, and he's hardly about to start with me, even though I've met every other requirement. I didn't even get a response affirming I didn't get the job."

Katherine gave a long-suffering sigh, "I'm so sorry about that. I know how you feel."

Clara raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Unfortunately, it's largely because everyone treats me like a princess. They won't let me _do _anything. I'm a token," Katherine explained. "I told my father I wanted to be a journalist – a _real _journalist – and he laughed at me."

Clara fought the urge to roll her eyes at someone actively complaining about being handed anything she wanted on a silver platter, especially when they could all afford to eat out at a nice restaurant and take carriages all over the city and so many people had so much less, but she had to respect Katherine for wanting to _earn_ her place, instead of being pampered forever. "I wish you the best with that."

"You seem to like the _Sun_. Try that," Hannah suggested casually.

Katherine gave a short, humorless laugh. "My father would lose his mind if I went to work for a competitor."

"What's the worst that could happen? He might be scared enough at losing your talent that he'd hire you for the position you want. Or you could get the job at the _Sun_. It's six one way, half dozen the other."

Clara nodded. "That's a good idea, Katherine. Hannah's good at figuring out all this adult stuff, you ought to listen to her every once in a while." She turned an ironic smile to her older friend. "Heaven knows I've had to learn to."

Katherine slowly smiled and nodded her agreement. "I'll ask Darcy tomorrow."

"Good girl," Hannah cheered, "Now shush about all this work talk and enjoy the meal like a regular human being and not a Pulitzer." She turned to Clara, "Or a Lemay."

Clara and Katherine exchanged an amused glance and nodded, happy to follow Hannah's decree and the conversation moved on to lighter topics, and when they parted ways an hour later, the topic of work hadn't been mentioned again.

* * *

**A/N: Hi I'm back! Sorry for missing last week, I've been busy with a new job, but I'm happy to be back to writing again. I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**


	21. The Job Hunt

_September 3__rd__, 1898_

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

The heavy oak doors before her swung open a crack before Clara's raised fist and an older man with a round face and a set of round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose peered out at Clara. He looked her over, raised an eyebrow at the teenage girl standing on his steps, and cocked his head slightly in curiosity. Clara took a sharp breath. He looked very much like an owl staring down his next meal. "Good day, Miss. What is your business with Mayor Strong?"

"Hello sir," she said with a smile, "My name is Clara Lemay. I have an appointment with him for nine o'clock about-"

"Yes yes, come in." He opened the door the rest of the way and led Clara into the waiting room, then disappeared into the mayor's office. She took a moment to settle her nerves and look around the room. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and a small suggestions box sat on a coffee table, overflowing with notes that hadn't been collected yet. Clara took a pen from the table and poked the ones that had fallen out closer to the box. One bore the date of July 15th.

The doorman re-emerged from the office and took his seat at the front desk.

"Is the Mayor available now?"

"No." He didn't look up from his books.

Her face fell. "Oh. When will he be free to talk?"

"He said he'd call for you when he's ready. Please sit down, Miss."

Clara resisted the urge to huff at him. After what felt like a millennium but what her pocket watch told her was only fifteen minutes, the doorman's intercom buzzed. He emerged from behind the stacks of papers and waved her towards the door. "You may go in now."

She gave him a polite nod and entered into the office where she took her seat across from the mayor.

He scarcely glanced at her when she sat down and gave a long sigh as he closed his books. "What do you want, Clara?"

"Hello sir, thank you for agreeing to see me today!" Clara started, putting on a cheerful tone and pulling a handful of paper from the folder she carried. "I just wanted to deliver my resume and application to you personally for the aide position that you advertise in the summers. I applied last year too, but I live in Brooklyn so I worried maybe mine hadn't made it to you in time."

He raised an eyebrow at her and took the papers that she slid across his desk, though he didn't read any of them. "Oh, I'm afraid you're mistaken, I did receive your papers last year. I'm sorry to have you make the trip all the way to Manhattan for nothing."

Clara started to frown but caught herself and made a confused face instead. "I didn't receive an acknowledgment or confirmation that you had received them, which is why I thought there might have been a mistake."

"I can assure you there was no mistake on my part. We don't send anything to the applicants who don't earn the position."

_Rude._ Couldn't they send some short note, if only to provide some closure? Clara nodded slowly. "I see. Well, thank you for your time. I hope you find merit in my application when you review it."

He nodded several times in response and turned back to his books. "Yes, of course, I'll have Jim look over it this afternoon. Good day."

"Goodbye," Clara responded, mustering all the patience and grace she could manage and making her way to the door. As she left the office, who should walk in but her own classmate, Lucas? He nodded politely at her as he crossed the room to the front desk to a hearty welcome from the doorman, who immediately let him into the mayor's office. The door slammed behind them as if they hadn't even seen Clara standing there, and she heard exuberant greetings and laughing and congratulations through the door as if they were old friends. She stood there still for a minute.

Staring at the door.

Waiting.

For what? It was over. Just like that, it was over. They were old friends, and Lucas would get the job for a second year, and that was that. Well. No use standing around. She had work to do back at Graham Windham, and she'd already wasted enough time as it was. With a quick breath, she composed herself and left the building to hail a carriage back across the bridge.

Soon enough, she'd arrived home. Thankfully her mother was still occupied with errands, and the apartment was empty when she pushed the front door open. Clara stormed up the stairs to her room, dumped her bag on the ground, ignored the papers scattering all over the floor, and collapsed on her bed in a huff. For all her initiative in going to speak to the mayor personally to make her case, _this _is what she got for her troubles?! Another year come and gone and the award or job or accolade awarded to _Lucas_ of all people. The plagiarizing, cocky, condescending, entitled, little-

She snatched a pillow from the headboard to muffle her shout of frustration and with a final long-suffering sigh, she collected herself and retreated to her desk to collect her thoughts and plan her next move. It was clear she wouldn't be getting _anywhere_ with Mayor Strong no matter how much she tried, and it would only be a waste of both of their times for her to try anymore. She needed a different angle.

But first, she needed to clean up this mess. Nothing like frustration-cleaning to clear the head. No point in working in a messy space, her mother always said. And besides, her mother would be annoyed if she left her room a mess before heading to work at the orphanage.

Clara crawled under the desk to start gathering up her things, only to come across several other items she'd dropped without noticing over time: several pens and nubs of chalk from her school slate, paperclips and a half-used eraser, her missing spool of red embroidery thread, the core of an apple that'd missed the wastebasket, and… what was this?

She dusted off the small scrap of cardstock and clambered to her feet with the rest of her collection which was unceremoniously dumped on her desk for future organization so that she could read the card by the light of her window. It was the old business card that Roosevelt had given her at the Refuge all those years ago. She didn't realize she'd kept it. It got tossed on the desk with the rest of the odds and ends as she went back to tidying her room.

Wait!

Roosevelt! He was her new angle. If she couldn't get a position with the Mayor, she could go above his head and try with him! She snatched the card up again. "police commissioner" it said, and she had to laugh that such an outdated card might be her chance. She would go above the Mayor's head… to the person who was running for _Governor._

* * *

In the following weeks between school, her studies, and shifts at the orphanage, Clara started trying to get an audience with Roosevelt. The first thing to do was try to set up a meeting, but when his secretary politely informed her that he would be booked clear through to November and that she was welcome to leave a note in the meantime, Clara gave up on trying to get in touch with him through any of the customary means. For such a large public figure, he never stayed in the same place for longer than a few hours, and by the time Clara found him through the paper or word of mouth that he'd been around the neighborhood, he'd already moved on, and even when she did find him at public speaking events and rallies, she couldn't get close enough to actually talk with him.

It was only by a stroke of luck (and maybe just a bit of stubbornness) that when she found herself making her way up the steps of his office to talk with his secretary for the third that time week to ask if any meeting slots had opened up, that Roosevelt himself came out. He rushed down the stairs, energetic as ever, and briefly touched his hat as he started to push past Clara.

She blanked, just for a moment, and he'd nearly escaped into the carriage when she snapped into action. "Sir! Just a moment, if you will!" she called, hurrying after him.

He halted the carriage just before they took off and looked down at the odd girl rushing breathlessly down the sidewalk toward him. "Can I help you, miss?"

She shoved her hand into her pocket, pulled out the business card, and handed it to him triumphantly. "My name is Clara Lemay. I believe we've met before – at the Refuge four years ago."

His expression clouded for a moment in a mix of amusement and bewilderment as he took the ancient business card and looked from it to Clara's bright red face. He lit up in a smile as he remembered.

"Oh, yes! You were the loud little one that stopped me on the street. Quite opinionated if I remember correctly, and it seems you haven't lost your penchant for planting yourself in my way to get my attention. What can I do for you?"

_Loud little one?! _A sharp response sprung to her tongue but Clara pushed the incredulous response away and plowed on with the speech she'd rehearsed a thousand times, "I'm a senior at Park Slope Prep School, I work at Graham Windham, I'm applying to Barnard College with the hope of going to law school, and I'd like to work for you."

For a second, Roosevelt was speechless. Clara took that as a good sign and continued on, "You remember correctly, I am loud… and opinionated. But I'm a hard worker and a quick learner. I'm really eager to get some experience in politics. Even if I could just tag along with you as an aide, I'd really appreciate that, and I can help you run your campaign for governor. I've organized several public functions and-"

"Something tells me you won't take no for an answer," he interrupted. As unorthodox as her proposition seemed, he was taken by curiosity at what could possibly compel a person such as her to be so bold.

What was this? A trick question? A wrong response could cost her this opportunity for good and she clenched her teeth at the thought of being thrown back to square one. Clara hesitated, and studied his face, searching for an answer. Despite the harsh tone, he held back a grin. She took a shaky breath and smiled right back.

"No, sir."

Roosevelt broke into raucous laughter, leaned down, and shook her hand. "Loud, and opinionated, and _stubborn_. I like that."

"Thank you, sir?" It hardly sounded like a compliment but if she could own it, she would, and it was a more positive response than she expected. Clara lit up with wild excitement and she shook back, bouncing lightly on her toes.

"You know, I've been called a professional busybody myself, which I think is just a polite way of calling me a politician. I think we'll get along alright anyhow. I'll speak to my secretary about getting you on the staff list. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning. My day starts at 5:30 am and I'm on the road by 6:30 or 7 most days, so stop by the office as soon as you can and we'll get you set up."

"_Thank you_, sir. Thank you so much!" Clara waved as he told the driver to get moving, twirled once, and started sprinting towards home. She couldn't wait to tell her parents and Hannah the good news.

* * *

**A/N: Clara's job searching comes to an end, but it's only the beginning of her new adventure! Next chapter we'll hear from Crutchie again, and we're getting closer to the canon-era timeline so there are a lot of fun moments to be had! Thank you for coming along for this journey with me. I'm having a lot of fun with it, and I hope you're enjoying the story too. :)**

**To the guest reviewer on chapter 20: Thank you for commenting! I hope you enjoyed this reappearance of Roosevelt, even if it's not how you expected him to show up again. We won't see much of Clara's rival in the long run, but he will be making a brief appearance in two chapter's time, so I hope you like that interaction. I really appreciate you took the time to respond to the story so thank you again for that :)**


	22. Finding Family

_November 17__th__, 1898_

Crutchie shivered as he made his way down the street back away from the circulation floor. A storm had moved in off the harbor that night, coating everything in a fine layer of freezing mist, and the blustery wind threatened to sweep him off his feet if he wasn't careful to avoid the patches of ice. Not many people out today and the prospects for selling didn't look very good. He shook off the numbness setting into his fingers – any feeling in his bad leg was long gone – and clenched his hand for a better grip on the crutch before putting on a stubborn smile and calling the first headline.

Either through a good deal of luck or sheer force of his optimistic will, the sun started to peek out from behind the midday overcast and the papers started to pick up as people made their way to the shops and food carts for lunch. He found a place with a friendly grocer and started to settle in, waving to one of the street kids who watched quietly from a stoop. Crutchie didn't expect him to be still sitting there whenever the crowds died down and he stopped selling to have a bite to eat, and he was more surprised when the boy scrambled down from his perch to sit next to him. He had a shock of curly light brown hair and wide eyes, but the most notable aspect of his appearance was his vest. It was dotted all over with dozens of mismatched buttons – shiny metal ones, carved wooden ones, rusty metal ones, big buttons, small buttons, of every shape and design.

"Hi, there! Need anything mended?"

Crutchie gave him a curious grin but decided to humor him and tugged off his right glove. "There's a hole worn through between the thumb and the palm where I hold my crutch. Can ya fix that?"

He nodded quickly, fished a spool of matching grey thread from his pocket, took a needle from where he kept it pinned in the fabric of his hat for safekeeping, and went to work. His fingers moved deftly between the fabric to create a web of string that wove around itself until the patch became part of the fabric itself. He finished it off by snapping the string with his teeth and handed it back to Crutchie.

"There ya go. That's a penny."

Crutchie smiled and gave him some extra spare change as he pulled on the glove. He wiggled his fingers and adjusted his grip on the crutch. The patch held up comfortably, and without the gaping window, the feeling started to return to his fingers.

"You got a name, kid?"

He squinted at the older boy. "My ma always said not to give my name to strangers."

Crutchie shrugged. "Your ma teach you how to sew too?"

He nodded a few times and blew into his hands to keep them warm.

"Then whatcha doing mending other street kid's clothes for small change? You're pretty good with that needle."

"Can't get no job with a tailor, being only twelve, and all the respectable sorts of folks either mend their own clothes or take them to a proper tailor, to begin with. Other street kids though I can usually help out."

Crutchie gave him a curious look. It was awfully generous - or foolish - of any street kid to operate like that instead of trying to score a real job. "I thought you said you got a Ma?"

The boy's face darkened, and understanding dawned on Crutchie. He put an arm around the smaller boy and pulled him into his side. "You got a place to stay for the night, Buttons?"

"I got a nice hiding spot behind an old laundry where the hot steam comes out," He suggested. Crutchie sucked in a breath of cold air and made up his mind. Buttons couldn't have been on the street for long, and he wouldn't last another week of this weather without a roof over his head. For a split second, it dawned on Crutchie that he'd switched positions with Jack from that fateful day all those years ago when he was cold and hungry and in need of a friend. Without a second thought, he pushed a bundle of newspapers into the younger boy's hands.

"Let's see if your voice is as good as your fingers. You can come back to the lodging house with me. I'm sure Jack wouldn't mind if you stayed the night, and then we'll get you selling properly in the morning. And if being a newsie ain't your thing, then we've got plenty of mending to be done between all the boys wearing their boots and everything else clean through."

"Really?!"

"Yeah, sure! Go on, try carrying the banner." Crutchie pushed gently him off the seat and into the sidewalk. He stood awkwardly for a second as the crowds swarmed around him like water around a pebble in a stream, took a glance at the paper, and shouted his first headline.

Crutchie had to admit that Buttons had a sort of natural charisma about him. Maybe it was his age, or his sociability, or his odd vest, but the customers walked away amused and pleased with the exchange. The two boys working in tandem quickly finished off the last of the day's papes and started back to the lodging-house together where Jack met the two with an enthusiastic greeting. They found some bunk space for him, and some scraps of fabric from a threadbare blanket so he could set about making himself some mittens, and retreated to their corner of the bunkroom with Race to talk quietly about the day.

"You did a good job bringing him back here, Crutchie. His fingers were half-frozen already."

"He seems like a good kid," Race added. "Clever, helpful. He'll be nice to have around."

Crutchie nodded and smiled slightly as Jack continued. "Did he say anything about his family. They won't be worried bout him or nothing?"

"Didn't say anything about a dad. His Ma passed away, and recently if I guess right. It's probably a sore subject. If he wants to talk, listen. Otherwise don't mention it."

Jack frowned and exchanged a look with Race. Many of their number and all the ones who stayed at the Lodging House came because they had nowhere else to go, but it was never an easy adjustment once the newness wore off and the homesickness set in. Especially when there was no remnant of an old home to go back to.

"I can keep him occupied," Race offered. "Between sewing jobs and games and work, he'll have enough to keep his hands and his mind busy."

"He needs time to process," Crutchie insisted. "That's good for the first few days but don't overwhelm him. 'specially not with the jobs. Those can be done anytime. Just make him welcome."

"Let's all just go round and introduce ourselves," Jack said. "He needs to meet everyone eventually, talking it out would be good for him, and then he won't feel so alone. How's that?"

Crutchie and Race nodded their agreement to the plan. Jack stood up and called for everyone's attention. He pointed out their newest member, Buttons gave a shy wave and told everyone to go round, tell their name, age if they knew it, and how they'd come to the lodging house. He started, introducing himself as Captain Jack (and rubbing his hand instinctively along the strap of the bag that was still slung around his shoulder) then gestured for Race to start the introductions around in a clockwise circle. Buttons nodded silently at each person, trying to commit the motley assortment of names and personalities to memory, and occasionally asking questions when a particularly interesting name or snippet of backstory caught his attention. Of course, the story of Jack's famous escape from the Refuge was amongst the stories. Buttons hadn't heard of it before and listened entirely enraptured as he regaled them of the tale that seemed to grow more outlandish every time. Since the last telling, Jack had become best friends with the governor while sitting in the back seat, and he allowed Jack to tag along on the errands for the day, where he'd been introduced to the theater star Medda Larkin. Crutchie thought it was a splendid addition, and only partially untrue. Jack did know the owner of Irving Hall, but he'd met her while during a different escapade that went unmentioned.

Crutchie, sitting to Jack's right, was the last to speak. He'd done this probably a dozen times, in one variation or another, which each new boy that was added to their ranks over the last years but seldom told his story the same way each time depending on how much energy he had to explain that night. His was… odd. At least by Newsie standards, though it could hardly hold a candle to Jack's antics. Most of them came to the profession either to support their families, going home in the evenings to help with whatever work they had at home, or they were orphans looking for a job to support themselves. He, unlike his braggadocious friend, remembered that his long-familiar situation would seem somewhat-sensational to the others, and it could easily drag out with exhausting questions or usurp the conversation. So keeping this and Button's poorly hidden yawning in mind he decided to give an abbreviated version.

"…and that's my bit," finished Albert who was sitting to Crutchie's right. "Your turn."

He adjusted his grip on his crutch and looked into the distance as he breezed over the story of his family's search for work, meeting Clara, and his illness. He feigned a casual tone of voice as he talked about the frustration that came with staying in bed for so many months, and how much he enjoyed the conversations he had with Clara over the time that he stayed with them. He spoke of the impatience that came with waiting for letters that never came, and how he'd landed upon what was at the time, a seemingly brilliant idea to follow the railways out West.

"…and then I left," he finished simply, "I made it to Manhattan before I nearly froze, Jack brought me here for the night, and I've been a Newsies since."

Almost immediately, a dozen questions came from the assembled company. So much for abbreviation. First came from Romeo, who turned on him a curious look. "Were you friends with the girl you stayed with? What was she like?"

Of_ course,_ Romeo asked about Clara. "She was my best friend," Andrew said slowly. "I miss her. I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder what she's doing sometimes."

"Do you regret coming here? Do you still plan to go out West?" asked JoJo. There was an odd sort of apprehension in his voice – not fearful that Crutchie would leave them, but almost disbelieving as if he were trying to imagine a life in the lodging house _without_ Crutchie, and the concept was too unbelievable to comprehend.

He hesitated, before answering, "No. I regret leaving her the way I did - without a goodbye, or a warning or any way to keep in contact. But that's history now, I love it here, and I've learned my lesson. I'm not leaving again." He cast a reassuring smile at Jojo and Romeo, and the younger boys grinned back.

He noticed Jack's bittersweet look and gave him a gentle punch in the arm. For as often as the two of them spoke of dropping everything and heading to Santa Fe together when things got bad, he knew that they both cared for the Newsies too much to skip out like that. They could dream, sure, they dreamed that one day they'd get a lucky break and one day the money wouldn't be so tight and one day there'd be another person ready to help lead the Newsies in their absence. But for now, they would stay, and he was content with that. Jack gave him a smile of understanding as Button's voice shook him back to the present

"You sound like you had a nice life there, but why did you leave? So soon like that?"

Crutchie looked around the room, as he found himself overwhelmed by nostalgia and realized how much time had passed and how much things had changed since his first night. He searched for a true answer to that question. He could probably name a hundred different reasons for how he justified his actions at the time, but only one mattered now.

"I needed to find my family," Crutchie answered. His voice was quiet and contemplative as he made eye contact with each of his brothers. "And, I did."

* * *

**A/N: I think you're all going to like the next chapter! Any guesses as to where our intrepid heroes go from here? **

**Thanks for reading and reviewing as always! **


	23. A Chance Encounter

_January 15__th__, 1899_

Clara rolled over, groaned, and shoved a pillow over her head to block out the obnoxious jangling of the alarm clock on her bedside. Her hand fumbled in the darkness of the early morning to find the stupid thing and shut it off.

Nearly four months of this job and 4:30 am was _still _an ungodly hour of the day to wake up. She wouldn't get out of bed for another fifteen minutes of course, but the rude awakening never got old. It was her fault, she mused as she rubbed her eyes. Her mother told her not to drink so much coffee, but she was a night owl by nature, and her best work happened between ten and midnight. Sustaining on four hours of sleep seemed to be her new norm, but if it meant she could do what she wanted – balancing her political work with volunteering at the orphanage and her classes - she would gladly accept it over the alternative of having to give up any of her many activities.

She sighed. If only she didn't have to get out from under the warm covers to go to work.

Clara threw off the covers all at once instead of trying to face the cold little by little, and quickly pulled on warm stockings, her best petticoat, and favorite blue and grey tweed skirt before her feet could freeze on the chilly wooden floor. A white blouse and matching smart-looking light blue blazer finished the look, aside from her bedhead. Clara dragged herself to the basin to splash her face with the frigid water and twist her waist-long blonde hair into a braid before piling it atop her head with a handful of hairpins. She barely kept her eyes open, and her hands moved by muscle memory as she mentally went over her schedule for the day.

And it would be a long day.

Clara grabbed her most recent read, _The Jungle Book,_ off her nightstand as she threw the things she would need for work into her satchel and headed for the kitchen of the small apartment she now shared with Hannah. When she'd finished the last semester at her old high school, her old friend suggested moving in with her so that she wouldn't need to commute to Roosevelt's Manhattan office every day from Brooklyn, and her parents wholeheartedly encouraged the idea. Hannah – either by virtue of being a morning person or having a few extra years to adjust to the early shift sleep schedule - was already bustling around the kitchen preparing lunches for the day. A cup of steaming coffee sat on the table, and Clara took it appreciatively as she sat down and opened her book even if she barely skimmed the pages. She could pretend to be productive.

"You're the best, Hannah."

"I know. Is a tomato sandwich good for lunch?"

Clara nodded and rested her head on her hand. "mmmhmm. I can make dinner tonight."

"Can you pick up some chocolates from the confectioners on the way home too?"

"Why?" Clara muttered. Hannah grinned over her shoulder at the younger girl, who was "resting her eyes." Always a dangerous endeavor. Hannah poked Clara in the shoulder. She stuck her tongue out in response, but roused nonetheless and took a sip of her coffee.

"Because I'm the best, remember?"

This earned a laugh from Clara. "That's right. What time is it?"

"Quarter after. Happy Monday, by the way."

"Already?!" Clara snapped her book shut and threw it in the bag with the rest of her things. She pulled on her winter clothes and rushed out the door with the remainder of her slice of toast, but completely forgetting her lunch.

Clara munched on her breakfast as she made her way out of the apartment and down the now-empty street. As much as she hated waking up early, she enjoyed being up early. The city never really slept, but in the quiet hours in the late hours of the night and the early hours of just before the dawn, there was a peaceful air about it when the world seemed full of possibilities. She did a small twirl in the middle of the pavement to shake the wrinkles out of her skirt and took a few deep breaths of cold morning air helped her to properly wake up.

She made it to the office in good time and greeted the secretary before retreating to her desk to start working on her tasks for the day. The campaign she helped to run went off wonderfully despite the fire from political rivals and the media alike. If she thought this job was busy before, she was in for a surprise: in the last few weeks, since Roosevelt had been inaugurated as the governor of New York, the work only doubled with the new added responsibilities.

But that's why she was here to help. The first task was to sort through any complaints or suggestions they may have received the day before. The secretary put them in a neat pile in the inbox on her desk, so she categorized a list of actionable items that needed to be addressed according to priority before throwing them out one by one. She and the secretary shared the job of responding to these in good time, doing any necessary research, and forwarding only the most important to the governor's desk.

A friendly young man who called himself Niner delivered the mail just before seven with his customary greeting of a smile and tip of his newsboy cap. Right on time. She sorted through those letters from constituents next. By the time Roosevelt arrived, she'd already written responses to a few of the items on her list, as well as assembled a list of other tasks to be accomplished alongside their scheduled meetings for the day and what could be marked off the list in the same errand. Hannah taught her that trick, she mused, reaching for another cup of coffee.

They were out the door again by 7:30, and making their way down Park Row towards City Hall when she heard a commotion from one of the newspaper distributions centers that lined the street. A group of high-spirited newsboys joked with each other and heckled the other workers as they lined up to get their day's papers. She turned around in time to see a shorter boy supporting himself with a crutch gently push away another boy with a cigar dangling out of his mouth.

"I don't need a limp to sell papes!" He shouted, before fixing his friend with a wide grin "I got personality! You see this smile? It's the kind that turns all the ladies' heads!"

Clara whipped her head back around to face forward again, hiding a smile of her own and blushing slightly at getting caught with her head turned. She only caught another few snippets of their conversation as they continued teasing each other before she had to rush to catch up with Roosevelt. She had to admit that the newsie was clever to play to his strengths and their exchange was amusing enough, but she set aside the instance as she turned her attention onto other matters at hand.

They were going to meet the mayor.

She'd already been briefed on the purpose of the meeting sometime last week. It was hardly the first time that Roosevelt and Mayor strong had met each other as individuals, but it would be the first of many meetings between the mayor and the new governor to discuss plans moving forward. He'd barely been governor for two weeks but already he'd started several projects and Clara couldn't remember a moment when he sat still for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

Even so, Clara completely missed what occurred in the first few minutes of the meeting, because she was too entertained by watching Mayor Strong and Lucas sitting across from them at the table, gaping slightly at Clara sitting proudly at the right hand of the governor with her notebook and pen. She snapped to attention whenever he asked her to take down another important reminder, but spent the remainder of the briefing smiling slightly and feeling quite like the smug cat that ate the canary. Rejecting her for the job was the best thing he could have done for her, and she really ought to write him an overly polite thank you note for his… services. She made a note of that in her list too before forcing her attention back to the discussion.

The rest of her morning was similarly occupied with meetings, letter writing, and other organizational tasks. When it finally came time for her lunch break, Clara reached into her bag, only to realize that she'd forgotten her lunch. She cursed her carelessness for a moment – Hannah would be annoyed with her for neglecting to enjoy the fruits of her labor, and she hoped the meal wouldn't be spoiled by the time she got back to their apartment. Oh well. She needed to eat, and there was no time to waste if she wanted to get to the rest of those letters that afternoon.

Clara snatched up her book and hit the streets. She planned to grab a quick bite to eat at Jacobi's and catch up on her reading in the precious free hour that she did have to herself. She'd scarcely stepped foot outside the office doors before her nose was already buried in the pages.

_Mowgli spied on the men in the village hammering out the beat to a song on their drums._

_Crash! Crash! Crash!_

_Came the beat. Women moved in time with the rhythm._

_Crash! Crash!_

CRASH.

Clara found herself sprawled on the ground; her book dropped whenever she'd collided with someone. She picked it up and looked for the poor soul who had the misfortune of running into her. A boy about her age with sandy blonde hair sticking out from a backward newsie cap, and with a bag full of papers at his side, sat startled on the pavement across her. A crutch lay scattered on the ground, just out of his reach, and she recognized him as the one with the head-turning smile from the circulation floor earlier.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed and fetched the crutch. He took it from her and got to his feet, brushed off his pants, and fixed her with that smile.

"Not a problem, Miss," He said with a good-natured tone.

"The fault is mine." Clara held up the book in an embarrassing explanation and felt her cheeks flush again as he tried not to laugh.

"Here." fished in her pockets for a nickel and pressed it into his hand. "I'll buy a paper for your troubles." She didn't even glance at the title as he handed her one and she shoved it in her pocketbook. "I already picked up one for my boss this morning but I'm sure he won't mind the afternoon edition."

"If your boss doesn't like it, then maybe you will," He suggested cheerfully, flipping the coin into the air once and then shoving it into his pocket.

"Yes…" Clara stared at the newsie for a second, trying to place something familiar about him. Of course, she'd seen him that morning at the circulation floor, but she could have sworn they knew each other from something else. No answers came immediately, and the coincidence of meeting him twice in a day combined with some odd nostalgia was too much to process in the split-second that she had, so she just awkwardly apologized again before heading their separate ways.

She'd nearly made it across the street before she heard his voice call her again.

"Hey, Miss! You got a name?"

She turned and smiled at him. "Clara," she answered shortly, before spinning on her heel and rushing off towards Jacobi's. She had work to do back at the office, and she'd tarried long enough.

* * *

_Clara_?

Crutchie absentmindedly sold another paper, but his poor head was spinning at the thought that somehow his long-lost childhood friend might have just casually run into him on the street twice in one day.

It couldn't be _that_ easy. Manhattan was a huge borough as it was, filled to near-overflowing with people and with new folks coming and going nearly every day. Even more so, if you included the outlying boroughs like Long Island and the travel from elsewhere in the state. Running into someone you knew was a slim chance unless you were in the same few blocks of neighborhood, and for her to come from all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge only to encounter him like that? A practically impossible chance.

But it'd been years after all. That was plenty of chances.

_No_, he thought. There had to be hundreds of gals named Clara around the city too. Unless he learned her last name and history, there would be no way of knowing who she really was. And he'd been gone so long, he didn't know Clara's history since he'd left either. Whatever she was doing nowadays, he certainly didn't have a clue, and so small talk would be unlikely to merit any useful information.

Right. So that was that.

Why was he trying so hard to talk himself out of the idea? There were practical reasons of course. If he tried to befriend every odd customer that caught his attention, he'd never make a sale, and so he pushed the thoughts out of his mind and called a few more headlines. If he was really and truly being honest with himself… he didn't want to be disappointed when inevitably she would turn out to be someone else, or when she never turned up again out of the crowd. He'd already lost his best friend once, and he wasn't about to get his hopes up again from some random careless girl who'd knocked him to the pavement.

But still. There was the resemblance in the sharp movements and inquisitive eyes that stirred something up memories, as blurred by time as they were.

_Silly_. The only thing he could do was to carry on and wait to see if she would turn up again. He'd take the chance if it were given to him, but today, he had work to do, and he'd tarried long enough.

* * *

**A/N: We are close my friends! We are very, *very* close. :D**

**I hope y'all have a great week and thank you for reading! **


	24. The Reunion

_March 19th, 1899_

The days following Clara's run-in with the newsie passed in a blur of activity as the responsibilities of her job swept her attention away from diversions such as going out to lunch. As the different tasks piled themselves on her desk with each passing hour, she happily got lost in the work of bringing order and efficiency to the sometimes-chaotic operation of the governor's office. When the days weren't full of meetings and note-taking, there was always a stack of filing to be put away neatly, research to be scrounged up on some new issue or another, and the never-ending mail to be sorted and addressed promptly. She normally found herself working straight through her lunch, then dinner, as she wrote with one hand and ate with the other.

She worked into the later hours of the evening, staying on long past when the other secretary went home to prepare dinner for her children, and wandering back to the apartment along the lamp-lit streets, where she'd then stay up by the flickering candle, pouring over the textbooks she'd need to know inside-out and backward for whenever she started university again in the fall. On the weekends, she'd trek back home across the Brooklyn Bridge to pull volunteer shifts at Graham Windham and help her mother and the other charity ladies to organize events.

She might be busy (and a little bit sleep deprived) but she thrived on the packed schedules and constant feeling that she was doing something useful and productive and valuable. She wouldn't change it for the world.

Hannah too seemed constantly employed by one thing or another either at the office or with her own family's activities (she had four younger sisters who were all involved in various activities of their own, so there were always events to go to and things to help with), though she was far better about taking breaks than Clara. Even in the hectic rush of daily life, she still found small moments to sit back and enjoy her friend's company over a cup of tea or a belated supper.

Yes, the days did indeed pass in a blur, as they quickly turned into weeks, and then months, until Clara had almost completely forgotten about her run-in with the friendly newsie. As the weather warmed with the passing seasons, and she finally started to listen to Hannah's insistence that she really ought to take time to rest more often, Clara found herself once again going out on her lunch breaks. She never wandered far from the office, usually just down to the row of restaurants that occupied the block across from city hall, to enjoy the outdoor seating, or to sit in the small park that surrounded the building and dotted Manhattan with its greenery. It was on one of these such excursions that she saw the newsie again, selling outside of Jacobi's, and he gave her a friendly smile as she passed.

She saw him often after that and realized that their first set of double meetings may have been less coincidental and unlikely than she originally thought since he seemed to live and sell in the area often. At first, Clara would only pass quickly on her way to her destination and they'd greet each other with a smile and maybe a wave or a polite nod. But one day when she'd finished her book earlier that morning, and neglecting to bring a backup, found herself in want of something to read while she ate, decided to stop and buy a paper.

The friendly newsie waved as she approached him. "Hello there, Clara!" He glanced down at her empty hands and gave her and gave her an impish grin. "No book today?"

"No, as a matter of fact," Clara said, somewhat incredulously. "No crashing either, though I will take a paper."

"Just as well!" He handed her the paper. "Your boss wasn't too annoyed with you for bringing a second edition back with you?"

Clara smiled despite herself at his good memory, surprised that he'd remembered her name at all, much less the comments that she'd dismissed at the time. "Yes, actually. He isn't fond of the World, and I didn't look at the headline," she said, handing him the change for the paper.

"Ah so you're a traitor," he laughed. "Hopefully you won't get in trouble again."

Well, she'd got this conversation off to a perfectly _splendid_ start. Clara dropped the coins into his hand and tried to recover from her gaff. "Oh, no, this is for me. I find it interesting to read multiple different points of view."

"I am curious, who could _possibly_ dislike the World?" the newsie asked. A proper salesman then…

"Governor Roosevelt."

"oh!"

Clara noticed the newsie's look of being completely taken aback at her answer and quickly tried to backpedal her earlier statement, saying, "He didn't take to Pulitzer's editorials so kindly, but the rest of the paper is fine, at least by my humble opinion. It's certainly nothing personal, I hope you don't take offense-"

"No offense taken," he reassured her. "What do you do there?"

Clara glowed at the compliment and happily took the chance to explain her role in the office and how it connected to her work at the orphanage. He listened attentively, nodding along to indicate that he followed what she said and was interested, and his eyes widened when she said the name of Graham Windham. She didn't know how long she'd spoke; it must have been several minutes but she barely noticed in the excitement of giving her soapbox speech. When she'd finished, he smiled at her again. "You're really smart to do all that," he said simply.

Clara felt herself flush in mild embarrassment and satisfaction at the sincere compliment. "Thank you… Well, I've talked enough about myself," she apologized with an awkward wave of her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I've been rather rude; I don't even know your name."

"Oh, I'm called Crutchie," he said and for the first time, he dropped his eyes away from hers to stare at the pavement, as if she'd offended him.

_Splendid._

"I'm sorry," she said again, "I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, don't worry about it, it's what everyone calls me. I like the name," He reassured her though still not looking up as he adjusted his grip, "And the crutch. I'd be more than a little put-out without it."

Clara nodded hurriedly and searched for something suitably polite to say in response, that nagging recognition tugging at her memory but unable to come up – or unwilling to accept - why she knew him. "I hope it heals soon," she said eventually.

"It won't," he said with an almost-convincing feigned casualness. He was looking past her now, somewhere into the crowd, scanning the other people that moved around them on the pavement, "I had polio as a little kid. But it's alright. I can get along."

Clara froze. The memories came crashing back into the forefront of her mind – the resemblance and situation too uncanny, the attitude the same stubborn friendliness, his tone too familiar to just be the kindness he paid random stranger girls on the street. The past _eight years, _she'd wished vainly to find her long lost best friend again. Eight years, she'd been too scared to hope, with no real closure and no way of finding it. Eight years she'd pushed the loss and lowliness out of her mind and thrown herself into her work to somehow make up for the fact that _Andrew was gone. _She never dared to dream of what their reunion might be like. She never expected it might be like this.

No. She was getting ahead of herself. There was still no proof this frustratingly familiar boy was her old friend. Plenty of street kids get polio each year. New York had so many people, always coming and going, it almost wasn't possible that he'd been right in their backyard their whole time. She almost didn't want to know if it would dash her hopes.

But still.

He was looking up at her again, with that blasted _smile_. Clara's insides twisted into knots of anticipation, but she finally forced herself to speak.

"What is your real name?" She asked, her voice choking slightly against her will. An indescribable look passed over his face, and her stomach dropped. "I'm sorry, I'm a little shaken. Forgive my bluntness. You remind me of someone."

But instead of the retort or passive-aggressively polite comment Clara expected, Crutchie only dropped his head for an instant before looking up at her again with his smile and saying, "My name is Andrew Morris.

_We found each other_.

"I've missed you."

* * *

Tears pricked at Andrew's eyes when he heard the last question, and he ducked his head to his chest to regain his compare before answering Clara – _his Clara_ – with his real name. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands on reflex, the same way she always did whenever she was trying to hide a smile at one of his jokes. But this was no joke.

They found each other.

Andrew stepped forward and threw his free arm around her for a hug. She nearly tackled him in the embrace. She had a couple of inches on him now, and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, solid and secure and safe. It felt like _home_.

When they finally pulled away, and he'd caught his balance with her steadying hand, it took a few more seconds before either of them could speak. Clara made a noise that was half sob and half laughter and he brushed the tears off her cheek between scrubbing at his own wet eyes.

"Dear God, I've missed you so much," she said finally. "I have so many questions."

"Me too. I'm so glad to see you again! I didn't recognize you at first – it didn't seem like you recognized me either but then you said about the orphanage and it couldn't be a coincidence!"

"I'm so stupid. We've been seeing each other in passing for so _long_ without knowing. All that time we could have-"

"It doesn't matter. We've found each other now."

"But all the lost years..." Clara dropped her eyes and rubbed her hand over her watch as if she was willing it to turn back time. She frowned when the clock face didn't start turning backward.

"We have all the time in the world now, don't we?" Andrew said, putting his hand on her wrist to ground her and assure her that yes, this was real, he was here, and they were together once again.

She nodded, and finally smiled back at him and his chest felt full to bursting with happiness and excitement. She'd changed, yes. He realized now that she stood a full head taller than him, when before they were nearly the same height, and she'd traded the ruffled blouses and hairbows of her childhood for smart business attire and thick long blonde braid coiled in a bun atop her head. Her attention was no longer on creating towns in the dirt at the park, but on creating a better town for them to live in. But she still had the same smile that got him through so many sad days, the same steady hands that supported him through so many painful tries at walking again, and the same fiery energy that fueled her actions whether it was a local clothing drive or a state-wide campaign.

He'd changed too, but he hoped she'd find the familiarity of their friendship too.

Clara absentmindedly glanced at her watch again, before starting in surprise. "It can't be almost one yet, can it?"

Andrew's brow furrowed in confusion, and he glanced at their shadows. "Just about. Why?" He asked, before realizing the same thing she did. "Oh! You were on your lunch break, weren't you?!"

"Yes, I have a meeting in ten minutes," she groaned. Despite the ticking clock, stubbornly marching on, she didn't make any attempts to turn back towards the office. "I don't want to leave you again."

Andrew's heart sank at the idea but he gave her a reassuring pat on the arm nonetheless and put on a cheerful tone. "It's alright. You have your work. I'm so proud of you. I know you worked hard for that. I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you promise? Here? At five o'clock, as soon as I get off work?"

She looked distraught at the prospect of leaving so soon after they'd just found each other again, and he shared the sentiment, but he also didn't want to be the reason she lost the thing she was so passionate about, and so he let her go.

"I promise. I have work to do too. We can have dinner in the park together and catch up."

"Alright," she said reluctantly. "I miss you again already."

"Me too."

"Four hours?" she said, turning around finally, before rushing back for a parting hug.

Crutchie smiled one last time when they pulled away. "We found each other once. I'll find you again."

* * *

**A/N: We made it folks! I hope it was worth the wait! :) There are plenty of adventures yet to be had, so if you liked this chapter, let me know what you think of it! Thank you as always for reading! **


	25. Catching Up

_March 19__th__, 1899. 2:04 pm._

Time wanted to spite Clara. The clock hands that moved so fast during her reunion with Andrew now refused to tick except for at an agonizingly slow pace. The next four hours passed – nay, they _dragged_ \- in a series of back to back meetings, but she could barely pay attention long enough to keep any useful notes. The dozens of questions that she'd battled into the back-most corners of her mind for the last eight years now clambered for her attention as she tried to puzzle through the answers on her own. Of all the places she'd finally found Andrew – in Manhattan! As a Newsie, of all the professions! She thought of all the times she'd visited across the bridge with her mother, all the times she'd picked up a paper from one of the scores of kids that walked the streets looking for the next customer, all the times she'd walked past him on the street and tried to ignore the feeling of familiarity that fate sent to try and push them together.

And now fate wanted her to suffer for her stupidity, it seemed. She checked her watch.

_2:46 pm._

Andrew tried to focus his attention on moving his afternoon's load of papes, but to limited success. He found himself zoning out as he watched the crowd, looking for the tall blonde among the scores of people even though he knew it was far too early for her to be released from work. The headlines died on his tongue as his mind wandered to his childhood. More than once, he caught himself quietly singing the old songs he made up as he rested in the upstairs bedroom to pass the time, the ones he performed for Clara to keep her from worrying too much about him. He shook himself from his reverie to sell a paper to one of his regulars before losing himself in thought once again.

He resigned himself to taking the loss for the papers that evening, but he never stopped smiling. It didn't matter, not when he'd found his friend.

_3:38 pm._

Wouldn't her parents get a laugh out of all this? Oh, how she couldn't wait to tell them the wonderful news, and how she couldn't _wait_ to learn Andrew's story. She expected they'd be talking for a long time – she wanted to spend every minute she could with him until she'd learned the answers to all her wonderings, and told him all about what she'd done in the meantime. But as soon as they'd finished tonight, she'd rush back to the apartment and tell Hannah everything and get the clothes she'd packed for the weekend. Then she'd catch a carriage home to tell them right away. Hopefully, they wouldn't be too annoyed with her tardiness when she broke the exciting news. What time was it? She must be close to getting out of here by now…

_4:25 pm._

So close…

Crutchie turned back towards the park and the corner of the sidewalk where he'd met Clara. He'd never look at Jacobi's the same way again, that was for sure. Even though his bad leg dragged as limp as ever, there was almost a skip in his step as he quickly made his way along the street. He had a promise to keep after all, and he wouldn't lose a second if he could help it.

_4:59 pm_

Clara all but threw herself out the door of the office with her hastily assembled collection of things and rushed back towards the street corner. Andrew stood there, just as he'd promised, finishing a sale. She called his name and he turned and fixed her with his smile and a wave, just as usual.

"How was work this afternoon?" He asked cheerfully, "Did the meeting go well?"

"Andrew, do you really mean to tell me that after all these years the first and only question you have for me is about something so mundane as work?"

"No, but I do want to know how your afternoon went." They began walking towards the park, and Andrew pointed out a street vendor that he often bought his dinner from. They each got their food as they spoke, before continuing on their way to find a good place to sit and talk without even breaking the flow of the conversation.

"It's not that important," Clara said with a shrug. Any other day, she'd be more than happy to talk about what she was doing at the office, but this was not an ordinary day.

"It seemed important to you earlier," said Andrew stubbornly, "so I want to know about it."

"Well, it's not as important as catching up with you. And if you must know," Clara said, "It was insufferably boring. And not just because I was eager to see you again. The traffic minister does always drag on... Appropriately enough. But wanting to see you certainly didn't help."

"That does sound boring. I hope it's not always like that."

"We don't do the same things every day. Today just happened to be a slow one," She said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "If we're exchanging simple pleasantries, how was your selling?"

"If you must know," He answered, mimicking her previous statement so that she had to laugh at his impersonation, "It was alright. The headline's lousy and I didn't get through 'em all but it ain't a big deal."

"Oh, so they'll buy back the papers you don't sell?"

"No. But it ain't a big deal." He shrugged, settling his bag into a more comfortable position. In truth, such a setback would cost him tomorrow's breakfast, though that was the farthest thing to from his mind at the moment. "How did you get the job with Roosevelt?"

Clara gave a rueful laugh as they reached the park and found an empty bench. "Being stubborn."

Andrew raised his eyebrows, "Glad to hear nothing's changed."

"I seem to remember you were the one who decided to walk all the way to the West which tops anything I've done. You still haven't told me about that."

"I wouldn't call that stubbornness so much as childish optimism. And I didn't get very far."

"I've noticed."

"You didn't really answer my question about the job though. I'm sure you musta done something real exciting to catch his attention!"

Clara briefly recounted what she'd be doing in the lost time – skimming over how she got through each school year and gradually took on more volunteer work at the orphanage, then graduated to the adult table as she began to organize events. Nothing very riveting, to be sure, and she was more than a little impatient for her turn to hear about Andrew's story, but she couldn't begrudge him the history. She shared the story of how she'd been rejected from the Mayor's office twice, then chased her employer around the city for a fortnight, much to Andrew's increasing amusement as he smiled at her through bites of his sandwich.

"And how is Hannah doing, and your parents?" He asked once she'd finished.

"My parents are well - still as involved as ever at the orphanage and the clinic. Hannah is working for Pulitzer as his personal secretary now," Clara answered shortly. She'd talked quite enough about herself and barely touched her dinner. She picked open the wrapper of her meal.

Andrew grinned at the good news. "Hannah was always real smart. I'm glad she's doing well. What about-"

"Wait wait wait," Clara interrupted.

"I'm waiting."

"It's your turn to tell of all the grand adventures you've had." The words _without me_ floated unsaid in the air behind her last statement. "I have a few questions for you first. Why did you leave so suddenly? I know you wanted to find your family but did you ever track down where they are? Since you didn't find them, then why didn't you come back to us, or even bother to _write_?"

Andrew's face fell at the barrage of questions. "Clara-"

She shook her head empathetically which sent a few stray pieces of hair flying, "And how in the world did you become a Newsie? Where do you stay? Have you been in Manhattan all this time? How about letting a friend know you're alive?!"

Andrew took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. Of course, she was cross. She had every right to be, and in the excitement of finding his friend again, he'd nearly forgotten the less-than-favorable circumstances that had initiated their separation.

"I'm sorry," He said finally. "I know that don't make up for any of it, but I'm sorry and I want to make it right. Do you think we could put the past behind us? And work on making the time we have now count?"

She nodded.

Slowly, he began the story of how he became Crutchie - about how he was too afraid of losing his family to not risk everything in finding them, the frustration at not going West after all, and how he'd nearly given up when Jack found him and brought him to the lodging house.

It occurred to him how different this occasion of telling his story was so much different from when he told it to the new newsies on their first night. In that case, the situation was somewhat reversed. The newsies, being more than acquainted with the experience of making a living on the streets, needed the past to be filled in only as a way of getting to know each other better. Clara had their shared history but knew nothing of his current situation, and he found himself stumbling several times over the particulars of the ordinary details of his day to day life and the workings of the lodging house.

Clara listened quietly as he told her about his friends and the first several years of life as a Newsie – wanting to go back but unwilling to leave the new family that needed him, and unable to scrape together the money or time that he needed to make such the trek when he was barely living from day to day on the meager funds he did have. Part of her wanted to march down to his lodging house and drag each of the boys back to Graham Windham for a proper meal and cleaning and education, though she knew that overturning the lifestyle of so many boys would be impossible to do overnight. Anger at his excuses for never getting in contact and concern for his well-being warred in her chest, and she bit her tongue as more indignant questions sprung to mind. He'd done his best. They'd given up on searching for him too. _The fault lies with both of us_, she told herself. He was right. Now it was just a matter of making up for lost time, even if it hurt to know how much time they'd truly lost.

He told her of Niner's time in the Refuge, and how the horrible experience haunted even the bravest of the boys. Clara crumpled the now-empty remains of her sandwich wrapper and swore. Andrew looked up at the sudden outburst.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but the Refuge is not. I'd hoped that in five years' time that my little outburst would have convinced Roosevelt to look into it, but that was a vain wish. I just wish that something could be done about it."

"Jack tried," Andrew said quietly, wondering what she meant by 'little outburst' but wanting to move on with his story.

"How could he possibly try to take on the Refuge?" They both knew too well the difficulty that lay in trying to be taken seriously when one was barely older than a child, a poor newsie, or a woman at that.

Andrew briefly explained the events that led up to Jack's capture, his protectiveness of all the boys, and then the story of his great escape – how he'd tied a sheet do the bedframe, tossed the end out the window, climbed down, then took off like a shot, only to catch a ride away in the backseat of Roosevelt's own personal carriage. At least, he told the story as truthfully as he could remember it. He laughed at the idea that Jack and Clara both knew the Mayor, though in such different ways. When he looked back at his friend, Clara wasn't laughing. She sat straight as a rod, looking curiously at Andrew and searching for some element in the tale that she could place.

"You're sure that's how he escaped?" she asked. "With the bedsheet and the window?"

"Yes! That I know is right. I remember he was on the second story, and there's not a fire escape on that side of the building."

"Do you remember there being a distraction? What year was this?"

Andrew looked up at the sky as he counted the years. "It musta been… 1894? Jack took over the lodging house from Niner two years ago, whenever he left to be a mailman and it was a few of years before that too."

"A mailman?!"

"Do you know 'im?"

"I saw him this morning!" Clara exclaimed, then waved off the wild coincidence before Andrew could comment. "What about the distraction?"

"I remember them saying that there was a hullaballoo out on the street. Snyder and Roosevelt was talking on the pavement, and there was a kid yelling at them. I don't remember what about. Why?"

Clara shook her head and laughed in complete disbelief as she pulled the old business card from her blazer pocket and handed it to Andrew.

"In 1894, Roosevelt was the city's police commissioner, you can read it there. My mother and I knew the Refuge was bad, but I'd just begun to get into helping the orphanage and I wanted to see it for myself. I ran into him – not literally – when we were there."

"No way!" Andrew exclaimed. "You saw Jack's escape?!"

"I started yelling at Roosevelt and Snyder to get them to look at me, instead of spotting him! He gave me the card to get me out of his way. Didn't expect me to come back waving it in his face, that's for sure."

Andrew grabbed her hand and lifted her arm in the air like the victor of the races at Sheepshead. "You're the best! Did you know that?"

"Not until now! I always wondered if he got out ok!" Clara said, shaking his arm in triumph before dropping it. "I don't think he made it into the back seat, though he did ride the carriage."

Andrew could only laugh. "I can't wait to tell all the guys about this, they're not goin'a believe it. I can't believe it! All this time!"

"We were so close so many times."

"It makes a good story, and I do happen to be in the business of collecting those," Andrew said with a wink. He patted his bag of papes for emphasis.

Clara shook her head again and smiled. In the lull of conversation, another newsie passed by and noticed his friend. The younger boy waved to them, and Andrew waved back.

"You coming back to the lodging house, Crutchie? It's almost sunset!"

"I'll be back before it's too dark, Romeo," he called. "Let Jack know I'll be a few minutes late."

Romeo saluted and skipped off in the direction of their group home, and Clara turned back towards Andrew. "That's another thing, why do you go by Crutchie?"

"Because I walk with a crutch," he snarked and Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "It's just a nickname, Clare, most all the Newsies got one. Romeo, there is quite the flirt. I'm sure he's going to give me a hard time about having a chat with a girl."

Now Clara did roll her eyes. "Good luck with that. Though I won't keep you from your interrogation if you need to be getting back."

Andrew nodded and started to stand. "Will I see you again tomorrow?"

Clara shook her head with a bittersweet frown. "I'm going home for the weekend to help with an event. But my parents will be so happy to hear the exciting news that I've finally found you! You should come back with me sometime when you are free. I'll arrange everything. I know they'd be so happy to see you!"

Andrew gave her a grateful look. "I'd like that. Enjoy your time with your family!"

"You too."

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**A/N: They've reunited but there's a lot of catching up to do yet! Thank you again to everyone who reads and reviews! I love reading your nice comments and I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far!**

**To the Guest who commented on the last two chapters: Thank you for leaving your thoughts! I hope you enjoy this conversation between Clara and Crutchie. There's not a "conflict" over where Crutchie belongs, but they do discuss it in a later chapter, so I hope you'll find that interesting. I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts on it! I do plan to continue this story, all the way through the Strike, in fact, so there's still quite a few adventures in store for these two :) Thank you again for reading!**


	26. Dinner with Friends

_March 19__th__, 1899, 7:30pm_

Hannah started in surprise when Clara slammed open the door to the apartment, nearly spilling the contents of her pot of stew down the front of her dress. She jumped back, barely steadying the pot as a small bit sloshed over the edge, and scowled.

"Warn a gal, would ya?"

"Sorry!" Clara yelped, rushing for a towel to sop up the mess. "Put down your pot."

"What?"

"Here." Clara scooped up her skirts, took the hot pot from her friend, and put it back on the stove. With that precaution taken care of, she turned back to Hannah with a wide grin. "I found Andrew!" she announced.

"WHAT?"

"I found Andrew!" Clara repeated, and quickly recounted the story he'd told as they cleaned up the mess, Hannah had her dinner, and she started to pack for the weekend. Hannah listened quietly for the most part but had to set down her water so as not to spill that too whenever Clara told her of how they'd been unknowingly ignoring each other for months because she was laughing too hard. Clara threw a rolled pair of socks at her in retribution and continued her story without waiting for an answer. She drew to an end as she finished stuffing her book and a journal into her bag, saying, "I've really got to be going because mother was expecting me home before dark and it's already late, but I think they'll understand the reason for my delay. They'll be so excited!"

Hannah nodded in agreement. "They'll want to know why you didn't bring him back with you though."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind, but he needed to get back to their lodging house."

"Maybe next weekend then."

Clara shook her head enthusiastically as she heaved her suitcase off the bed to set it by the door and the bed squeaked in protest. "Of course, I'll ask my parents if it's alright, but he did say he'd be happy to visit."

"You should invite him over for dinner sometime," she offered. "I wasn't as close to him as you were, but it would be nice to catch up."

"He asked about you! Would Monday be ok?"

"I've got a report due so I'll probably be working late. Tuesday night then?"

"Tuesday," Clara agreed, looking around for her hat and coat. The weather had been nicer earlier in the day and warming towards spring, but the nights still felt frigid by comparison.

Hannah fetched Clara's jacket and handed it to her on the way out the door. "Say hi for me, and travel safely."

The Lemay's were thrilled to hear the news that Andrew was safe and found, and insisted that he visit at the first chance. The event that weekend – a supplies drive to raise money and stock up on the day to day necessities for the children – went off spectacularly, and Clara returned to Manhattan satisfied with her weekend's work. Andrew gladly accepted the invitation to dinner, and Tuesday evening after working hours followed Clara back to their apartment. Hannah welcomed him with a round of applause and mugs of warm cider and they worked together to prepare the dinner of roasted chicken and baked potatoes as he caught up on Hannah's story of how she'd started as a secretary to earn a little extra money for her family, and quickly proven herself to be an efficient and organized worker that wouldn't be cowed by the pressures of the job.

"You're really at the top!" He exclaimed as he pulled the plates from a cabinet to set the table. "I guess you're the one who gets a final say in things?

"Hardly," She scoffed, "I have a little influence in the office with the other secretaries but you wouldn't guess it with some of the fool's errands he has me running."

"But it's funny that we ended up workin' for the same boss without even knowin' it."

"I'm surprised you never met each other," Clara declared as she pulled their potatoes from a pot of boiling water. "I mean, Hannah, you can see the circulation floor from the building, can't you? How often do you go down there, or walk past it?"

"Not as often as you'd think since I'm on the top floor of the building and get there before the paper's printed. And you two saw each other every day and never bothered to talk for three months." She replied, chopping celery and then distractedly holding up the knife to emphasize her statement. "I don't want to hear you two tell me about being oblivious."

Andrew and Clara looked at each other, expecting the other to say something in rebuttal and realizing that she had a point. Andrew laughed. They would never live that down. He shook his head and continued with his task of getting glasses of water for the table.

"How was your presentation today?" Clara asked Hannah as they sat down to eat.

"Bad," she answered with a surprising note of indifference. "It's not my fault the headlines don't sell. I just report the numbers. Doesn't put Joe in any better of a mood, though, and not that I particularly care, but he grouches around and puts the others on edge."

Andrew rolled his eyes at that. "The headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. 'specially when the headline stinks." The commentary on the inner workings of the newspaper company was interesting – he always wondered what sort of person came up with the snoozers and, and the internal politics seemed to account for a good amount of it.

"Excuse me, you would be the expert," Hannah rectified, "It's not my fault that Bill is an entirely incompetent senior editor. I just report the numbers, and he should consult you on what makes a hot-selling headline."

"He should consult Jack. He comes up with some good ones. Though Race ain't bad either."

"I'm glad you have so many good friends with the other newsies," Hannah mused. "You always seem like a tight-knit group, at least from afar."

"They're all great," Andrew agreed, nodding wholeheartedly, turning to include Clara in his next statement. "You've got to come meet them someday!"

"Sure," she said, somewhat reluctantly, "Maybe later though."

He shrugged. They had time now, after all. "How are the rest of our friends from school doin? John and Millie and Lucas and the rest of them?"

He'd never been as close with them, but he appreciated their company and personalities nonetheless, and occasionally found himself remembering the way John would act after he'd won a game of marbles when Race did the same thing with cards. He also remembered that they'd been hesitant to invite Clara into their group and he hoped that she'd been able to maintain her nebulous connections with them in the time he'd been gone.

"Last I checked they were alright," She answered, poking a piece of chicken around her plate. "We've been somewhat out of contact since grammar school ended. I still see John around the neighborhood, every so often. He has a job with a glassblower. I think. We haven't talked in a while. Millie is still at school so I've seen a little more of her, but we don't have the same classes and she's made friends with her own group of girls who are going to be nurses. She's nice enough, I just can't keep up with the medical things she talks about. I haven't kept in contact with the rest of them though, I'm sorry. Lucas is… fine."

"I'm glad that John and Millie are doing alright. Say hi for me the next time you see them, ok?" That was somewhat reassuring, though he was sure that Clara spent significantly more time alone in the library than she let on.

"Ok."

"You sound like you don't get along with Lucas anymore. Didya have a falling out?"

"Lucas is the one who took the position with the mayor," Hannah explained helpfully, "It's not that they had a falling out, but they don't get along."

"He's not a bad person he's just…" Clara searched for the politest way to state this, "Frustratingly oblivious to his advantages. And a bit of a brag."

Andrew nodded slowly in understanding. "Y'know it don't matter, right? You got the better position anyhow and you've got the smarts and the will to get it. I know the charity ladies appreciate your help back at the orphanage, and you've got Hannah to keep an eye out for you and your parents to cheer you. And I'm proud of your work! That's what's important in the end of it," He said, nodding his head in the older girl's direction as he said his name.

"Thanks," Clara smiled. "Oh! And speaking of my parents, they want to know if you can come to stay for the weekend."

Andrew grinned. "Of course. I'll have to let Jack know I'll be gone but it shouldn't be a problem."

Clara took a deep breath at the mention of Jack and steadied herself for the next topic of conversation. "They also wanted to know if you might want to _stay_ with us," She started, "You could have your old room back if you'd like, and it might be a little more comfortable than the lodging house."

Andrew smiled at the offer but shook his head. Yes, there were many things to regret about the past, and he would always be grateful for the Lemay's hospitality and sorry for throwing it away without a proper thanks, but that was the past, and they'd both moved on…

"I need to stay at the lodging house with the newsies," He started, and Clara's face fell so he continued trying to explain, "There are eighteen boys there, most of them are all younger than me, and they don't got any other homes to go back to. Jack's our captain, and he does great make sure everyone is safe and fed at the end of the night, but it's not something one person can do alone, and sometimes he needs the help as much as any of the new boys."

He paused to gauge Clara's reaction. She was nodding, but still wore the frown that told him she wasn't truly satisfied with his answer, so he tried a different tactic. "I want to visit. I'd love to see your parents again, and say thank you for everything they did, and say sorry for leaving like that. But going back now won't fix that, and I learned that lesson the hard way. I can't leave the Newsies."

"I understand," Clara answered, with a bittersweet smile.

"You really do?" He'd expected her to put up more of a fuss, and he hid a hopeful smile in case that she might find some other objection.

"Yes. They need you and it makes sense with your job and they're so important to you I won't begrudge you of that," Clara said slowly, and Andrew broke into a wide grin of excitement at her acceptance. It was clear from her hesitance that she was a little disappointed, but she did care. She was doing her best to support the decision despite her reluctance and it was all he could have asked for.

"I can't wait to see your family next weekend though! And I'll visit lots, I promise."

Clara gave him a genuine smile now. "Is there's anything the newsies might need for the lodging house? There might be extra supplies and toiletries from the drive this weekend that I can have my mother set aside for you."

Andrew sat back in disbelief at such a generous offer. He didn't much like the idea of taking the donations when he could earn from selling enough to cover his own needs, and he knew many of the others would feel the same, especially when they could go to better use at the orphanage. But he couldn't deny that they did need to restock on essentials, and this unexpected boon might be enough to square their accounts for the months, and maybe scrape together a little something for some sorely-needed recreation.

"That's real nice of ya. I don't know what to say…"

"You don't have to say right away. I'm sorry I just thought of it and you were saying about all the boys…"

"Thank you. I don't want to take it if the kids at the orphanage need those things, an' I'll ask Jack. He'd know best."

Clara nodded her understanding again and pushed her chair away from the table to begin gathering up the plates. Hannah pulled her hands away from the dishes. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Cleaning?"

"No. Rest. The dishes can wait, and it's my turn to do them tonight. You have company over, just enjoy the time you have here and now."

Clara looked to Andrew for help, but he shook his head and took up his crutch and the plates himself. "Hannah is right, but you told me once that 'once I was better I would have to start doing some chores around here' and I intend to honor that."

Clara threw her hands into the air and laughed in surrender. "You two are insufferable," she joked.

"No," Andrew corrected, "We're inevitable."

**A/N: **

**Ok, it's technically Monday because it's 12:08 here but I haven't gone to bed yet so it's still Sunday and therefore this chapter is relatively "on time" by my book. I'm sorry I didn't have the chance to post last weekend! The new semester of zoom college as well as a new part-time position at work both started this past Monday and have consumed most of my time, so I wanted to thank you all so much for your patience! I will do my *absolute best* to maintain my posting schedule in the coming weeks as I get adjusted to my new life schedule, but I also don't want to give you a sub-par reading experience so, just be warned that updates might be a little bit more sporadic than usual. Thank you again for reading!**

**To "Guestanewone" who commented on the last chapter: Thank you so much for your review! I'm sorry to keep you waiting but I'm so happy to hear you're enjoying the story so much! I do plan to continue, so I hope you like where it goes in the future! :)**


	27. Self-Sufficient

**A/N: Hello friends! A quick note before we get into this chapter – it covers some ableist topics (pretty mild, nothing worse than what's seen in canon) but I just wanted to put a content warning for that before the story so you know. I hope you enjoy reading this – more notes at the end :)**

* * *

_March 25__th,__ 1899, 6:00 am_

Crutchie pulled himself out of bed as Race's wake-up call rang through the bunkroom. He already lay awake, so the shouting didn't bother him so much as the getting out of bed did. His shoulders and wrists protested against the movement as he propped his crutch under his arm. He would need to change the cushioning soon or it would continue to hurt whenever he put his weight on it, and he made a mental note to stop by the tailor's shop later to get some scraps that he could use for the project as he began to prepare for the day.

The rest of the morning's routine passed without event as the boys gathered their things. Crutchie headed out early to make his way carefully sideways down the stairs before rejoining with the group on the street, where they trekked down to the church for breakfast, and then to the circulation floor. It was a cool damp spring morning, with dew collecting on the plants that grew between the cracks in the concrete and clouds hanging low in the sky. He pulled his gloves on against the early morning chill – Buttons had patched the hole again that wore between his thumb and palm wherever he held his crutch every winter - and took a seat on a crate where the sunlight broke through the overcast and buildings. Its warmth felt good, and there was a smell on the air of warm days to come. He smiled.

The headlines went up as the morning bell rang. _Roosevelt Talks to Citizen's Club. Plot Around a Foundling – Blackmail Suspected. Fire Engines called to Morrello._ Not a bad lot. Could be better, but there was material to work with. Whenever he saw Clara that afternoon, he'd need to ask her about the first headline. Hearing about the activities of her employer from the authority herself and comparing it to the journalist's story was always an entertaining activity. The headline wasn't a helpful or even descriptive one. Talking was a politician's job, after all, and whether they told of the latest bombshell, or if they didn't have anything to _say_ at all, varied from day to day, and he wouldn't know until he had the papes in hand.

Finch made his way across the floor to where Crutchie sat and leaned against the wagon next to his friend. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, pointing up to the board. "Whaddya think?"

He considered. He was cold, but his leg didn't hurt as much as he would expect it to for such a damp morning, and he suspected that the cloud cover would blow away soon enough. Maybe even by mid-morning. "You can take your normal amount, or maybe a few extra. The last one will be the moneymaker today."

Finch nodded in agreement and acknowledgment, but they didn't have time for any more conversation as Wiesel and the Delancey brothers rolled the stacks of papers onto the floor. The two boys moved to line up, bought 50 papes a piece, and started on their ways with a wave and a "thank you." Crutchie started walking toward his first selling spot of the day with a satisfying step as he noticed the dew starting to dry, leaving patchy light spots on the ground as the sun began to shine brighter from behind the breaking clouds. Though he sometimes resented the pain that oftentimes accompanied his talent at predicting the weather, he had to agree with Finch that it was a useful one. Occasionally the others would try to guess too, and it was a fun game to see how accurate he could be. Sometimes it could be difficult to tell if the pain was from over-exertion, the usual baseline of numbness, or genuinely from the bad weather, but he could usually make the closest guess.

Soon enough, he'd reached the first stop on his route. While most other newsies spent their workday wandering all across New York, sometimes even as far afield as Central Park, looking for turf that hadn't been claimed yet and moving through the busiest areas to take advantage of the crowds, Crutchie used a different strategy. Stopping at various points around a loop that stayed relatively close to the area of the lodging house and circulation floor meant that he could save his strength for longer, and sometimes even get through the day with energy to enjoy playing with the other boys in the evenings. At first, he'd tried to keep up with Jack, Niner, Blue, and the other older ones, which only left him more tired the next day. By now, he'd learned to work to the advantage of letting buyers come to him, instead of chasing them down. The consistent schedule meant that he had a regular stream of customers, and the rhyming titles and songs he made out of the headlines caught the difference. Once he rested, he moved onto his next spot, and after years of routine, he could time his walks with the crowds.

Foley Square came first. A bench next to a law office on Worth Street. Two blocks down Church Street to the grocer's shop on the corner of Duane for lunch. Then another two blocks to the tailor's shop on Chambers street around midafternoon. He pushed open the door and carefully but quickly stepped up over the threshold before the door could shut on him again. The bell above rang with a cheerful noise, and the brunette girl sitting behind the counter looked up from her work with a smile. After he explained his purpose in coming, she ducked into a back room and pulled out a large wicker basket full of fabric scraps and bits of trimming. Together, they picked a wide piece of brown tartan, some yellow calico, and with a few smart stitches and a couple of strings of twine, soon had fitted a proper cushion for the crutch. Crutchie thanked her for her help and gave her a free paper before parting with a wave.

The final stop on his loop was making his way back to City Hall Park. He moved leisurely along the path, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun that had broken through the clouds as he'd suspected. The fine gravel was easy enough to move over, though he did need to watch out for the occasional tree root or larger rock so as not to lose his balance, and he made it to Clara's office without incident. He found a bench across the street from the door and sat down to wait, selling a few papers in the meantime. Soon enough, Clara emerged from the building. She stood on the stoop for a moment, searching, and Crutchie waved her down. Her head snapped around as she noticed him, then she smiled and hurried across to where he was now standing.

As they started to walk along Park Row, she flipped him a coin and he handed her the last of his papers. "Anything good today?"

"First headline! _Roosevelt Talks to Citizen's Club. _What do you think of that?"

She squinted at the page, reading as she walked. A man was approaching in the opposite direction, and Crutchie quietly warned her so that she could step to the side without a collision. She gave him a smile of thanks and went back to her reading.

"It's an alright rendition," she said finally looking up and tucking the paper under her arm, "Though not entirely favorable. He was trying to garner some public support for the legislature that's up to be passed soon, and he spoke bluntly as he usually does. They weren't too keen on it at first. The article talks an awful lot about 'ideals' but it seems like they just thought it was too much of a risk. Somewhat insulting if you ask me, though of course, they all act so distinguished about it all."

"Do you think they'll support it after all?"

Clara shook her head and stepped off the curb as they reached the street corner. "I doubt it, but Roosevelt doesn't seem to be too bothered by it."

"That's good I suppose! He can always try again at another club or society."

Crutchie started to step down from the pavement and into the street traffic after her, careful to maneuver over the small ledge in a controlled fall when a rough hand grabbed his vest and hauled him back onto the sidewalk. His heart leaped into his throat as he turned, half-expecting to see Snyder or one of his goons, and he stumbled for his balance. Clara whirled around as she realized that her friend wasn't beside her.

"Let go of him!" she cried, and the man dropped his hold on Crutchie's vest. He looked over his shoulder, and realized that it wasn't Snyder after all, but rather some stranger, and pulled himself out of the man's grip to regain his footing on solid ground.

"You were about to fall into the street and get trampled!" The man accused him, "You ought to be more careful of where you're going!" Clara opened her mouth to reply, but Crutchie silenced her with a look and took a breath to slow his still-racing heart. He kept a white-knuckled grip on his crutch as he addressed his unwanted 'assistant'.

"I can take care of myself, sir, there's no need to grab me without asking or warning," he said, his tone even and stern.

"I was only trying to help!" The man puffed up his chest defensively. Crutchie only gave him a tired look.

"Thank you, but I do not need your help, I'm safe now." With that, he pivoted and stepped back out into the street with a determined stride and click of his crutch. "Good day."

The man left, still spluttering, and Clara hurried to follow her friend. She waited until he was out of earshot, glancing over her shoulder to watch his hat disappear amongst the bobbing heads of the crowd, before speaking again. "Well of all the nerve!"

He just shook his head.

"Who just _grabs_ a person like that?! Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine."

"I don't understand how he could have been so rude to you, as if he were entitled to your gratitude for assaulting you. Why didn't you tell him off?"

Crutchie sighed and turned a tired look on Clara as they stepped up onto the opposite curb. "Things like this happen all the time. It ain't worth the fight."

"But _why?!"_

"I dunno. Sometimes they're in a rush and just push everyone out of their way. A few think I'm helpless, 'cause of the crutch, like this one. Taking it upon themselves to "help" without asking if it's needed. 'Cause we're poor, or they think we don't belong here and would be better off outta their way." He said, and the words were bitter and somewhat resigned, "They don't mean any harm, of course, and I have to pick my battles."

"No, it's _not_ alright," Clara agreed vehemently. "And you can't just stand down and let them treat you like that!"

"I got the guy off of me, didn't I? And look, we've walked on. It's over now." Clara grumbled something else about fighting, and Crutchie resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his well-meaning friend. "You did first find me by knocking me over entirely, remember?" he pointed out.

Clara flushed with embarrassment and anger, "Yes, and I was careless and I'm very, very sorry for that."

"They're just careless too. And a bit ignorant. Ya see? It's fine. No yelling needed."

"Well then you should have yelled at me too," Clara huffed.

"I can do that now if it'd make you feel better," Crutchie offered with a grin, "And I'm certainly glad I didn't at the time because then you'd have been cross with me and not come back and we wouldn't have recognized each other. And what a sorry thing that'd be."

Clara made a long sigh and conceded her point. "I suppose I understand. It's not practical to go about picking fights with everyone and that's probably a lesson I could stand to learn. But you ought to know your worth and not put up with people treating you any less."

"I know, I can take care of myself," he repeated, though more softly this time. Clara's anger on his behalf was touching, that she would care that much about the second-hand slight, but he hoped to drive his point home.

Clara ducked her head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way, you're right."

"It's alright," He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a genuine smile now. "And besides, if I ever do need help, I know who to ask."

* * *

**A/N: **

***scrambles out from beneath a mountain of textbooks and loose-leaf paper***

**I'm allliiiiiiivvvvvveeeeee!**

**I am very sorry for the long delay in updating. As it turns out, working part-time and doing uni coursework concurrently is really time-consuming. Who knew?! Certainly not past-me, who held all the lofty goals and ideals of weekly to bi-weekly updates. Unfortunately, I'm about to dive back into that pile of textbooks and loose-leaf as exams are coming up (yay…) and I'm not making any promises about update schedules this time.**

**If you've seen my profile or this story's description lately, you'll see I've edited both to mark this story as [semi-hiatus status]. This means that I'm working up chapters whenever I do have the spare time to sit down and focus on one and that updates are still forthcoming since this story is FAR from abandoned, but that they're going to be coming out on a "we get there when we get there" basis. I've got the next one half-drafted, and a vacation coming up over Thanksgiving break in a little less than a month, so hopefully, I'll be able to have some more content for you soon! **

**I've missed these characters and I enjoyed writing this one! Fun fact: the news stories in this chapter are all real headlines from the date of March 25****th****, 1899 (though they're actually from the Sun and not the World). It can be found on the national archives newspaper database if you're curious – reading about historical politics is always entertaining to me because it shows how we haven't really changed that much in 121 years. I don't have specific sources for this research, but after reading several blogs, I've learned that the "rude people attempting to help" thing is a rather common occurrence for disabled people, so I wanted to represent that here, and I hope I did it respectfully and faithfully.**

**If you're still sticking around this story after such a long time, let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you around :)**


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